,CK 
4  EX 


California 
legional 
'acility 


W^AY:  MOSES: 


-JACOB  HUFF. 


(JACOB 'HUFF:) 


iiK  10  Art  of  Cm.zn-ss.  in  tin-  \  ,•.•,,•  is!i;>.  in   .[.U'ni!  HI  FT 
in  the  ottir<>  nf  the  Librarian  "I  Conutvss. 
at    \Va-liiiu't»li. 


Press  of  Pennsylvania   Grit, 
Williamsport.  Pa. 


AUTHOR'S    APOLOGY. 


5INCE  it  is  the  custom  of  authors  to  write  a  sort  of 
apologetic  preface  for  their  works,  I  will  work  one 
into  mine,  although  I  do  not  know  what  I  could  say 
that  would  make  the  stuffing  of  the  book  suit  the  taste 
of  those  who  have  no  taste  for  verse. 

Almost  everybody  will  be  disappointed  in  this  book, 
because  they  have  been  expecting  something  humor- 
ous. But  there  is  a  sad  and  serious  side  to  every  man's 
life,  and  in  mine  there  has  been  a  homesick  feeling 
haunting  my  soul  since  I  came  West,  and,  while  roam- 
ing over  the  deserts  of  Colorado,  where  the  silence  feels 
as  heavy  and  gloomy  as  the  shadow  of  death,  these 
songs  came  into  my  heart  like  requiems  sung  over  the 
graves  where  I  am  fast  burying  the  memories  of  my 
boyhood  friends ;  for  the  many  faces  I  loved  in  the  long 
ago  seem  to  be  fading  away  from  Memory's  view,  like 
the  little  whirlwinds  of  sand  that  go  dancing  out 
towards  the  horizon  and  disappear  forever. 

My  next  book  will  be  in  prose,  giving  the  humorous, 
pathetic  and  wicked  sides  of  Western  life,  and  will  be 
my  master- work.  I  have  been  already  two  years  col- 
lecting material  for  this  book,  and  it  will  take  one  year 
more  to  complete  the  work.  It  will  be  called 

"THE  MORTAL  CINCH ; 

A  TALE  OF  THE 

SINS  AND  SORROWS  OF  THE  WILD  AND 
WICKED  WEST." 

L,ook  out  for  it  in  the  near  future. 

FARAWAY  MOSES. 

(JACOB  HUFF.) 

2200401 


INDEX 


Page. 

Out  on  the  Desert, 7 

Charlie,            ...........  10 

Little  Injun  Dick 12 

Superstition, i^ 

The  Cow  Boy's  Wife 14 

Forethought, 15 

It  Is  Kasy  to  Talk, 16 

Thunder  Storm  on  the  Rockies. 17 

Song  of  the  Burro, 19 

The  Miser  of  Lost  Canyon, 21 

If  Christ  Were  Here,        .........  23 

Silver  Threads, 25 

The  Lost  Troopers, 27 

Smothered  Thoughts, 31 

The  Cliff  Dwellers, 33 

You  and  I  Together, 36 

Left  Behind 38 

Little  Maverick 41 

Dreaming  of  Home, 42 

Oblivion,         ...........  45 

nXa-Wee-Ta, 47 

My  Church, 49 

Alone  by  the  River, 50 

Casting  Bread 52 

A  Slight  Mistake 53 

Bedtime, 54 

There  is  No  Friendship,                    55 

The  Curse  of  Colorado 56 

The  Accursed  Cities 57 

Don't  Forget  Your  Mother, 60 

The  Old  Stone  Fence, 62 

God  Never  Willed  It  So,      ...'....  64 

The  Sheep  Herder, 65 

The  Wise  Boy 66 

The  Stranger, 67 

Pleading  Eyes, 68 

November, 70 

Flowers  My  Mother  Loved, 72 

The  Weary  Wanderer, 74 

Who  Spoiled  the  Poet 76 

My  Doubts, 77 

Back  Again, 78 

The  Contrast 79 

While  Betsy  Played  the  Organ, 80 

Happy  !  Happy  New  Year  ! 82 

Looking  Down  the  Road,     ........  84 


INDEX  -Continued. 

Page. 

A  Child  of  Fate, .        .  86 

My  Creed, 88 

Art, 88 

Thoughts  on  Theosophy,      ........  89 

Society, 91 

Life, 92 

Life's  Bloody  Battle, 95 

A  Bad  Cough, 96 

Myself,        ............  97 

Philosophy  of  the  Hat, 99 

My  Farm,            ...........  100 

Desert  Heart,         ..........  102 

My  Love  Story, .         .         .         .104 

Poor  Farmer  Boy,          .........  105 

When  Daddy  Said  the  Blessing 108 

Dreamland  Faces,         .........  no 

Love, .        .in 

The  Bully, 1 1 1 

The  Cries  Go  Up  to  Heaven,  .         .         .         .         .         .         .112 

Ready  to  Go,           .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .  113 

He  Shocked  the  World, .  115 

Life  is  All  Guess- Work 117 

Little  Nell, 119 

lone 121 

Rural  Melodies,         .         .                 .         .         .         .         .         .  1 23 

Kbb  and  Flow,       ..........  125 

After  Many  Years,     .         .                  127 

Frost  Bites,            128 

Quotin' Skriptoor, 130 

The  Chief  End  of  Man, 132 

The  Silent  Somewhere,            133 

She  Never  Knew,          .........  135 

Changes, 137 

What  the  Spirits  Told  Me,           .......  138 

Who  Lies  Here?       ........         .        .  141 

Grandpa's  Baby, 142 

We  Are  Blind,            '  .  144 

Jilted, 145 

Love's  Young  Dream, 146 

Retrospect,     ...........  148 

Going  to  Mill, 150 


SONGS    OF    THE    DESERT. 


OUT  ON  THE  DESERT. 


Were  you  ever  on  the  desert, 

out  on  Colorado's  plains? 
Where  the  sun  shines  hot  all  Summer, 

and  it  very  seldom  rains  ; 
Where  the  grease  wood  and  the  salt-sage 

are  the  only  living  thing, 
Except  some  loneh^  flowers 

in  the  early  months  of  Spring  ; 
And  the  prairie-dog  and  rabbit, 

and  the  raven's  lonely  "caw," 
And  the  air  so  sad  with  silence 

that  it  fills  your  soul  wyith  awe. 
Oh,  it's  awful  tramping  over 

through  the  silence  strange  and  odd, 
And  the  sun-rays  pouring  on  you 

like  the  vengeance  of  your  God. 
There  are  mountains  all  around  you, 

in  the  distance  looking  blue. 
With  their  peaks  in  the  horizon, 

just  as  tho'  they'd  stabbed  it  through 


.SY).Y(/.V  OF    THE    DESERT. 


And  the  highest  covered  over 

with  a  coat  of  ice  and  snow, 
So  far  above  the  timber-line 

where  trees  can  never  grow  ; 
And  they  look  so  strange  and  dreary 

looming  up  so  high  and  odd — 
Look  as  tho'  the}'  frowned  upon  you, 

and  were  lonelier  than  God  : 
And  you  wonder  if  they  stood  there 

through  so  many  million  years, 
And  were  always  cold  and  lonely 

and  unmoved  by  human  tears. 
And  the  winds  rush  by  so  silent, 

sending  dust  clouds  in  the  air, 
For  there's  no  trees,  with  their  branches, 

to  obstruct  the  passage  there  ; 
And  the  sky  seems  far  and  distant, 

painted  in  the  deepest  blue, 
And  there's  not  the  smallest  cloudlet 

to  obstruct  the  distant  view. 
But  the  silence,  oh,  the  silence  ! 

fills  your  soul  with  nameless  fears, 
And  your  heart  is  aching,  aching, 

filled  with  dreams  of  former  years  ; 
And  the  dry  plains,  parch'd  and  barren, 

and  the  sand-hills  standing  bare, 
Here  and  there  the  bones  of  cattle 

bleaching  in  the  silent  air: 
And  you  wonder  if  in  Heaven 

God  remembers  this  lone  place. 
If  he  looks  on  it  in  pity, 


SO.VGS  OF    THE   DESERT. 


seeing  it  in  the  embrace 
Of  this  awful,  death-like  silence, 

and  the  great  sun's  burning  rays ; 
Where  all  nature  cries  for  water 

through  the  burning  summer  days  : 
And  you  wonder  if  the  angels 

know  how  all  these  cattle  died 
Of  thirst  and  grim  starvation, 

on  this  desert  parch 'd  and  dried  ; 
And  your  heart  grows  sad  and  heavy 

as  you  onward  silent  plod, 
Looking  to  the  far-off  mountains, 

standing  lonely  as  their  God. 
But  yet,  with  all  its  horrors, 

and  its  dreadful,  barren  state, 
Men  are  trying  to  reclaim  it, 

even  tho'  the  task  is  great ; 
For  there  seems  to  be  a  hunger 

in  the  human  heart  for  land, 
And  the  poor  men,  who  are  driven 

from  their  homes  with  empty  hand, 
Will  now  face  this  dreadful  silence, 

and,  where  nature  does  oppose, 
Will,  by  careful  irrigation, 

bloom  this  desert  like  the  rose : 
And  the  mountains  over  yonder 

watching  these  poor  people  plod, 
Will  know  they  feel  the  silence, 

and  are  lonelier  than  God. 


SONGS  01'    Till':   DESERT. 


CHARLIE. 


In  the  Spring  time  when  we  parted, 
I  remember  how  love  .smarted, 
And  she  left  me  broken-hearted. 

For  her  parents  frowned  on  me. 
To  the  far  West  they  did  take  her, 
Thinking  I  would  then  forsake  her, 
But  this  promise  1  did  make  her  : 

Charlie,  I  will  come  for  thee  ! 

Oh,  the  sad  and  weary  waiting, 
And  my  poor  heart  nearly  breaking  ; 
No  one  else  could  feel  the  aching, 

Nor  the  shadows  could  they  see. 
But  the  years  went  slowly  crawling, 
Thrice  the  Winter  snows  came  falling, 
And  my  heart  was  ever  calling  : 

Charlie,  I  will  come  for  thee  ! 

In  the  twilight  shadows  falling. 
And  the  Coyote's  dismal  calling, 
And  the  weary  cattle  bawling, 

Pictures  Western  life  to  me. 
On  the  old  Ute  reservati  >n, 
There  is  one  sage-brush  plantation  ; 
From  the  little  railroad  station 

Charlie's  new  home  one  can  see. 


so.\<is  or  Tin-:  DESERT. 


To  this  cabin  I'm  advancing, 

While  my  blood  goes  through  me  dancing, 

Visions  my  poor  heart  entrancing, 

For  my  loved  one  I  can  see. 
To  the  gate  with  one  hand  clinging — 
Hark,  I  hear  her  sweet  voice  singing  : 
To  the  new  moon  she  is  singing 

"Bring  my  loved  one  back  to  me !" 

"Both  my  parents  have  relented, 
And  their  cruel  deed  repented, 
And  to-day  they  both  consented 

My  loved  one  dare  come  to  me. 
All  our  fortune  has  departed, 
And  the  old  folks  broken-hearted — " 
At  these  words  I  cried  and  started  : 

"Charlie,  I  have  come  for  thee!" 


No  more  words  were  spoke  at  meeting. 
For  our  true  hearts,  wildly  beating, 
vSmothered  ev'ry  tender  greeting, 

While  I  held  her  close  to  me. 
And  the  stars  in  Heaven  shining, 
Smiled  to  see  our  arms  entwining ; 
There  shall  be  no  more  repining — 

Charlie,  I  have  come  for  thee  ! 


SONGS  OF   THE  DESERT. 


There  may  come  sad  days  of  sighing1 
Over  hopes  so  slowly  dying, 
And  our  hearts  in  secret  crying  : 

God  of  mercy,  pity  me  ! 
But  should  sorrow  hover  o'er  us, 
May  this  bright  hope  go  before  us, 
Always  singing  this  sweet  chorus  : 

Charlie,  I  have  come  for  thee ! 


LITTLE    IXJUN   DICK. 


Little  Injun   Dick 

Was  up  to  ev'ry  trick, 
Tho'  he  was  but  a  dozen  years  old; 

In  summer  he  run  bare, 

Except  his  head  of  hair, 
A  breech  cloth  added  when  the  nights  got  cold. 

His  daddy  was  a  chief, 

Also  a  horse  thief, 
And  he  loved  whisky  better  than  his  kid; 

He  had  the  biggest  maw 

For  rum  you  ever  saw, 
And  many  a  quart  into  it  slid. 

Little  Injun    Dick 

Found  a  dynamite  stick 
Some  prospector  had  lost  in  the  wood; 

And,  thinking  it  sweet  meat, 

He  began  at  once  to  eat, 
And  said,  "White  man's  sausage  welly  good." 


.SY;AY;.V  OF  THE  DESERT.  13 


Then  home  he  ran  with  glee 

To  his  father's  teepee, 
And  found  the  old  man  drunk  as  a  lord; 

He  had  just  whipped  his  squaw 

For  having  too  much  jaw 
And  ttyingto  get  in  the  last  word. 

When  little  Dick  came  in 

He  was  cussing  like  sin, 
And  the  moment  he  set  eyes  on  his  kid, 

He  made  a  wicked  kick 

At  poor  little  Dick — 
'Twas  the  very  last  thing  that  he  did. 

'Twas  wonderful  to  see 
The  end  of  that  teepee, 

The  dust,  smoke,  legs,  thunder  and  roar; 
There  were  entrails  and  hair, 
And  ham-strings  in  the  air, 

And  it  rained  meat  for  two  davs  or  more. 


SUPERSTITION. 


Men  know  but  little  of  nature, 
Or  the  grass  on  which  they  have  trod, 
And  all  that,  of  which  they  know  nothing, 
They  worship  and  call  it  their  god. 


14  SON(,'S  OF    THE   DIVERT. 


THK  COW  BOY'S  \VIFK. 


Sweet  little  Maverick,  go  to  sleep, 

Bossie  cow's  bell  is  ringing  ; 
The  moon  o'er  the  mountain  soon  will  peep, 

The  birds  have  all  quit  singing  ; 
Sleep  while  your  papa  is  riding 

Out  where  the  cougar  is  hiding, 
And  baby  is  well  in  the  home  corral, 

While  the  sandman  sleep  is  bringing. 

Papa  is  bringing  the  cattle  home, 

Out  on  the  mesa  they're  bawling  ; 
Supper  is  waiting  for  him  to  come — 

Loudly  the  coyote  is  calling. 
Papa  is  mamma's  brave  hero, 

Broad  is  his  beaded  sombrero, 
And  we  need  not  fear  the  bellowing  steer, 

Nor  accidents  befalling. 

Sleep  has  lassoed  my  baby  at  last, 

Sweetly  he  smiles  in  his  dreaming  ; 
Tangled  in  slumber's  lariat  fast — 

Hears  not  the  catamount  screaming. 
'Bove  the  crag's  peak  over  yonder 

Hang  storm-clouds  charged  with  thunder, 
I  hear  the  deep  roar  as  it  echoes  o'er 

The  mesa,  where  moonlight  is  streaming. 


SO.VG'S  OF    THE  DESERT. 


Far  up  the  crag  where  the  moonbeams  fall, 

Through  the  window  I'm  seeing 
Two  pumas  fierce  through  the  moonlight  crawl, 

After  the  antelope  fleeing. 
Softly  the  night  winds  are  blowing, 

Louder  the  thunder  peals  growing, 
Sleep,  baby,  sleep,  while  the  storm-clouds  creep, 

The  midnight  storm  decreeing. 

Hark  !  in  the  distance  the  cattle  bawl, 

I  hear  the  cow  boys  yelling  ; 
And  papa's  voice  rings  above  them  all — 

My  lonely  heart  is  swelling. 
Sometimes  I  sigh  for  the  city, 

Where  friends  think  of  me  in  pity, 
But  I  love  the  steer  and  the  wild  life  here, 

And  my  heart  with  joy  is  welling. 


FORETHOUGHT. 


'Will  you  love  me  when  I'm  old?" 

Said  the  whisky  to  the  man  ; 
'You'll  be  better  then,  I'm  told, 

And  I'll  love  you  all  I  can." 
'Will  you  love  me  when  I'm  old  ? 

When  there's  wrinkles  on  my  brow  ?' 
'Then  I  may  be  turned  to  mould, 

So  I'd  better  drink  you  now." 


1 6  .SY>.V<V.V  OF    THE   DESERT. 


IT  IS  EASY  TO  TALK. 


It  is  easy  to  talk  of  your  virtue 

When  you  have  grown  old  and  gray, 
When  your  blood  is  cold  and  your  heart  is  old, 

And  passion  has  faded  away; 
But  the  young  man  may  fall  to  temptation 

The  maiden  act  indiscreet, 
For  the  sins  of  youth  are  really,  in  truth, 

A  something  awfully  sweet. 

To  tell  how  to  get  wealthy  is  easy, 

When  your  fortune  is  already  made; 
But  the  man  in  the  yoke  will  think  it  no  joke 

To  make  millions  by  his  trade. 
For  the  great  world  is  always  changing, 

Aad  chances  are  not  the  same, 
And  the  hog  in  most  men  is  as  great  as  then, 

And  the  shrewd  have  blocked  ev'ry  game. 

It  is  easy  to  talk  of  wisdom, 

If  3'ou  yourself  have  been  schooled; 
But  the  factory  child  who  works  all  the  while, 

By  just  such  as  you  are  fooled; 
For  you  lie  to  them,  and  deceive  them, 

And  tell  them  God  has  made 
A  particular  few  with  nothing  to  do, 

While  millions  must  work  at  their  trade. 


or  THE  DI-:SERT.  17 


It  is  easy  to  talk  of  religion, 

And  speak  of  the  mercies  of  God, 
While  you  hold  in  your  hand  the  fat  of  the  land, 

Accumulated  by  fraud; 
But  the  poor  man,  in  rags  and  tatters, 

With  his  children  crying  for  bread, 
Knows  very  well  there  could  be  no  worse  hell 

Fall  over  his  poor  weary  head. 


THUNDER  STORM  ON  THE  ROCKIES. 


The  dark  clouds  hang  o'er  the  mountains; 

The  crags,  again  and  again, 
Seem  to  stab  the  storm  clouds  bosom, 

And  make  it  roar  with  pain ; 
The  lightning  wickedly  flashing, 

Illuminating  the  sky, 
Seems  like  a  terrible  warning — 

The  storm  will  conquer  or  die. 

And  midst  the  roar  and  the  flashing 

'Round  the  rugged  crag's  high  head, 
The  monstrous  mountains  tremble 

Like  giants  filled  with  dread; 
And  the  lurid  streaks  of  lightning 

Darting  athwart  the  cloud, 
And  thunderbolts  loud  jolting 

Behind  the  storm-crest  proud. 


1 8  .SYUY/.V  ()/•'    THE   DESERT. 


The  heavens  are  filled  with  grandeur, 

And  the  thunder's  mighty  roar, 
Seems  like  a  voice  Almighty 

And  shouting  from  shore  to  shore; 
And  the  fog  banks  down  the  canyon, 

Afloat  like  rivers  of  love, 
Are  drifting  to  the  storm  clouds, 

Like  down  from  a  snow-white  dove. 

And  from  the  valley  beholding 

The  grandeur  of  nature's  might, 
I'm  standing  in  awe  and  transport 

At  such  a  majestic  sight; 
And  I  hear  the  great  clouds  roaring 

Like  demons  in  great  pain, 
And  the  whirlwinds  in  the  valley 

Go  dancing  before  the  rain. 

And  the  withered  vegetation 

Takes  on  fresh  hope,  I  think, 
And  to  the  storm-god  of  nature, 

Holds  out  its  hands  for  a  drink. 
But  the  storm  clouds  are  receding, 

They  seldom  cross  the  plain, 
And  down  in  the  sun-dried  valley 

The  flowers  still  crv  for  rain. 


OF    THE   DESERT.  19 


SONG  OF  THE  BURRO. 


I  am  the  emblem  of  patience  and  hope, 
The  angel  of  the  great  Pacific  slope; 
Though  not  embellished  with  aesthetic  grace, 
I  have  a  very  remarkable  face — 
I'm  a  burro. 

Some  men  call  me  the  mountain  canary, 
And  others  call  me  the  canyon  fair}', 
But  instead  of  feathers  I  am  hairy, 
And  cannot  warble  so  light  and  airy — 
I'm  a  burro. 

Old  poets  love  to  sing  of  fairy  land, 
Where  a  little  wrinkled  woman  with  a  wand, 
Can  order  half  the  universe  to  stand; 
But  when  you  want  a  fairy  thats  got  the  sand, 
Take  a  burro. 

Take  me,  for  instance,  with  my  sweet  brown  eyes, 
Where  you  see  reflected  the  summer  skies; 
Where  hope  and  patience  never,  never  dies; 
But  I  sometimes  give  the  bo\-s  a  surprise, 
'Cause  I'm  a  burro. 

When  they  mount  me  in  groups  of  three  or  four, 
All  crowded  until  I  will  hold  no  more, 
From  head  to  tail,  as  I  said  before, 
I  do  sometimes  scatter  them  on  the  floor — 
The  rights  of  a  burro. 


SO.VGS  OF   THE    DESERT. 


Carefully  he  hid  all  trace  of  his  treasure, 
Covering  it  up  with  the  dead  leaves  and  moss, 
Never  devising  an}'  means  or  measure 
To  extract  the  gold  from  the  granite  and  dross. 
He  was  rich  now — this  was  all  he  required. 
At  last  his  efforts  had  been  crowned  with  success  ; 
All  love,  and  mercy,  and  kindness  expired, 
And  he  even  now  loved  his  poor  self  much  less. 
A  week  went  by,  and  the  old  man  still  lingered, 
Eating  nothing,  but  drinking  at  the  fountain  ; 
While  the  samples  from  his  gold  rock  he  fingered, 
And  watched  the  sun  rise  and  set  on  the  mountain. 

Weaker  and  still  weaker  now  the  old  man  grew, 
And  at  last  could  only  crawl  down  for  a  drink  ; 
But  he  kept  his  golden  rock  always  in  view, 
And  seldom  or  never  of  grim  death  did  think. 
And  now  it  is  night  on  the  moon-lit  mountain, 
And  the  stars  like  diamonds  glitter  overhead  ; 
And  the  darksome  shadows  down  at  the  fountain 
Are  hiding  the  face  of  the  miserable  dead. 

Oh,  the  miserable  death  of  the  mountain  miser! 
Now  lying  so  stiff  by  the  side  of  his  gold ; 
Still  grasping  his  samples,  but  now  no  wiser 
Than  the  rocks  beside  him  in  the  shadows  cold. 
And  the  moon  ascending  shines  down  the  canyon, 
And  melts  the  shadows  from  the  face  of  the  dead — 
Died  as  he  lived,  without  friend  or  companion, 
Thinking  of  his  gold  until  the  last  breath  fled. 


OF   THE    DESEKT. 


IF  CHRIST  WERE  HERE. 


If  I  told  you  of  a  Savior 

In  a  lowl\-  stable  born, 
Could  I  tell  by  your  behavior 

That  you  gave  the  least  concern 
To  his  welfare  or  his  mission  ? 

If  his  parents  were  both  poor, 
Would  you  bow  in  meek  submission 

Just  outside  the  stable  door? 

Now,  if  this  was  in  the  city. 

And  the  parents  had  no  cash, 
Would  you  mingle,  with  your  pity, 

Contempt  for  such  lowly  trash  ? 
Would  you  not  laugh  in  derision 

At  the  idea  of  a  God 
Meeting  with  such  poor  provision, 

In  a  world  where  prophets  trod? 

Would  you  take  them  into  your  house  ? 

Saying  beggars,  welcome  here! 
No;  you'd  cry,  Off  to  the  poor  house! 

There's  the  pauper's  proper  sphere. 
Likewise,  if  you  owned  the  stable 

\Vhere  the  unknown  Jesus  lay, 
You'd  collect  some  rent,  if  able; 

Or  would  drive  them  all  away. 


SO.VGS   OF   THE    DESERT. 


Carefully  he  hid  all  trace  of  his  treasure, 
Covering  it  up  with  the  dead  leaves  and  moss, 
Never  devising  an}-  means  or  measure 
To  extract  the  gold  from  the  granite  and  dross. 
He  was  rich  now — this  was  all  he  required. 
At  last  his  efforts  had  been  crowned  with  success  \. 
All  love,  and  mercy,  and  kindness  expired. 
And  he  even  now  loved  his  poor  self  much  less. 
A  week  went  by,  and  the  old  man  still  lingered. 
Eating  nothing,  but  drinking  at  the  fountain  ; 
While  the  samples  from  his  gold  rock  he  fingered, 
And  watched  the  sun  rise  and  set  on  the  mountain. 

Weaker  and  still  weaker  now  the  old  man  grew, 
And  at  last  could  only  crawl  down  for  a  drink  ; 
But  he  kept  his  golden  rock  always  in  view, 
And  seldom  or  never  of  grim  death  did  think. 
And  now  it  is  night  on  the  moon-lit  mountain, 
And  the  stars  like  diamonds  glitter  overhead ; 
And  the  darksome  shadows  down  at  the  fountain 
Are  hiding  the  face  of  the  miserable  dead. 

Oh,  the  miserable  death  of  the  mountain  miser! 
Now  lying  so  stiff  by  the  side  of  his  gold  ; 
Still  grasping  his  samples,  but  now  no  wiser 
Than  the  rocks  beside  him  in  the  shadows  cold. 
And  the  moon  ascending  shines  down  the  canyon, 
And  melts  the  shadows  from  the  face  of  the  dead — 
Died  as  he  lived,  without  friend  or  companion, 
Thinking  of  his  gold  until  the  last  breath  fled. 


SO.V(,'S   OF   THE    DESERT.  23 


IF  CHRIST  WERE  HERE. 


If  I  told  you  of  a  Savior 

In  a  lowly  stable  born, 
Could  I  tell  by  your  behavior 

That  you  gave  the  least  concern 
To  his  welfare  or  his  mission  ? 

If  his  parents  were  both  poor, 
Would  you  bow  in  meek  submission 

Just  outside  the  stable  door  ? 

Now,  if  this  was  in  the  citj", 

And  the  parents  had  no  cash, 
Would  you  mingle,  with  your  pity, 

Contempt  for  such  lowly  trash  ? 
Would  you  not  laugh  in  derision 

At  the  idea  of  a  God 
Meeting  with  such  poor  provision, 

In  a  world  where  prophets  trod? 

Would  you  take  them  into  your  house  ? 

Saying  beggars,  welcome  here! 
No;  you'd  cry,  Off  to  the  poor  house! 

There's  the  pauper's  proper  sphere. 
Likewise,  if  you  owned  the  stable 

Where  the  unknown  Jesus  lay, 
You'd  collect  some  rent,  if  able; 

Or  would  drive  them  all  away. 


24  .VaYG'.V  OF    THE   DESERT. 


You  can  boast  of  loving  Jesus, 

Knowing  that  He  reigns  above; 
If  He  came  as  poor  as  Laz'rus, 

To  the  winds  would  fly  your  love. 
To  the  police  you'd  be  flying, 

With  an  angry,  hurried  tread; 
In  the  chain  gang  Christ  be  tying, 

If  He  dared  to  ask  for  bread. 

Even  in  the  gilded  temple, 

Christ,  in  rags,  would  dare  not  pray; 
There's  no  seat  for  one  so  simple 

'Mongst  the  Christians  of  to-day. 
Christ  the  mighty,  \\p  in  glory, 

Having  blessings  to  bestow, 
Reads  like  quite  another  story, 

Than  a  beggar  down  below. 

Do  you  think  God  you're  deceiving? 

Do  you  think  that  Christ  is  blind  ? 
Do  you  think  this  make-believing 

Teaches  Christ  that  you  are  kind  ? 
Does  not  Christ  know  ev'ry  beggar 

That  comes  knocking  at  your  door? 
Would  the  God  who  guarded  Hagar 

Overlook  the  worthy  poor? 

God's  fair  earth  you  go  on  fencing, 
To  the  best  you  lay  a  claim, 

And  your  vile  laws  you're  dispensing, 
To  the  Lord  Almighty's  shame. 


SO.Vd'S  OF    THE   DESERT.  25 


For,  on  earth,  Christ's  greatest  mission 
Was  God's  justice  to  declare; 

Do  yon  think  yon  have  permission 
To  rob  poor  men  of  their  share? 

Do  yon  think  the  loving  Savior 

Has  not  wisely  laid  his  plan? 
Does  He  not  see  onr  behavior 

Shown  towards  our  fellow  man  ? 
In  the  beggar  yon  receive  Him; 

In  the  prison  He  is  too; 
If  yon  truly  then  believe  Him, 

All  are  Christ's  who  come  to  you. 


SILVER  THREADS. 


I  love  these  old  gray  heads 

With  hair  of  silver  gray  ; 
Their  tangled  silver  threads, 

Bleached  like  the  meadow  hay 
They  bring  to  me  a  face 

Out  of  the  shadows  deep, 
And  loving  lines  I  trace, 

Like  those  of  one  asleep 
Far  away  on  the  hill 

Where  my  dead  lov'd  ones  lie, 
And  where  I  hope  I  will 

Be  buried  when  I  die. 


26  SOWS  OF    THE   DESERT. 


Gray  hair,  like  faded  moss, 

Draping  the  wrinkled  brow, 
Purified  from  all  dross — 

No  bright,  gay  colors  now. 
Shroud  for  the  buried  past ; 

A  rose  of  death  for  age  ; 
A  flag  of  truce  at  last  ; 

Of  life's  book  the  last  page. 
Dear  gray  hair,  moist  with  tears 

Of  children,  whose  small  hands 
Cling  to  it  in  their  fears, 

And  hold  the  silver  strands. 

Gray  hair,  you  touch  1113-  heart, 

And  cause  my  soul  to  chide ; 
Twixt  life  and  death  you  part, 

Where  death  and  life  divide. 
But  yet,  when  out  of  place, 

Or  in  the  butter  hid, 
You  bring  the  same  disgrace 

As  hair  from  off  a  "kid." 
If  baked  within  the  bread, 

And  swallowed  by  mistake, 
We  honor  not  the  head 

Of  she  who  did  it  bake. 

Gray  hair,  like  royal  crown, 
You  have  your  place  to  shine, 

But,  please  do  not  fall  down 
Into  this  soup  of  mine. 

I  love  you  on  the  head 

Where  you  do  nourish  thin, 


OF    THE  DESERT.  27 


But,  on  my  buttered  bread, 
I  hate  you  worse  than  sin. 

Shroud  of  the  buried  past, 
vYou  honor  any  head, 

But  don't  you  get  baked  fast 
In  gobs  of  sour  bread. 


THE  LOST  TROOPERS. 


On  the  plains  of  Arizona, 
O'er  the  parch 'd  and  burning  sands, 
Slowly  rode  the  squad  of  troopers, 
Fighting  only  thirst's  demands. 
Da}-s  and  days  they  saw  no  water, 
And  their  old  guide  had  been  lost, 
For  the  sand-hills  had  been  shifting, 
In  the  winds  their  atoms  toss'd. 

Now  they  rode  on  searching  water, 

Horses,  riders,  almost  dead  ; 

Tongues  were  parched  and  half  protruding, 

And  their  eyes  were  crimson  red. 

Some  are  falling  to  the  rearward, 

Half  concluding  there  to  die, 

But  their  captain  cheers  them  onward, 

And  once  more  the  brave  men  try. 


2cS  SONGS  01-    THE  DESERT. 


Softly  night  is  falling  on  them, 
And  the  moon,  so  full  and  round. 
Slowly  rises  in  the  Heavens, 
Casts  long  shadows  on  the  ground. 
And  they  hear  the  water  murmur 
In  imagination's  dream, 
And  the>'  often  mistake  shadows 
In  the  distance  for  a  stream. 

"Water!  water!"  cries  each  trooper, 
Goaded  on  by  thirst's  keen  smart ; 
'Tis  the  cry  of  delirium, 
'Tis  a  whisper  in  each  heart  ; 
For  the}'  know  that  in  the  morning, 
When  the  sun  shall  rise  again, 
It  will  add  more  to  their  terror, 
vShining  down  upon  the  plain. 

But,  joy  !  at  early  morning 
They  all  hear  a  small  bird  sing, 
And  the  old  guide  then  assures  them 
They  are  nearing  some  cool  spring. 
"God  be  praised !"  they  see  its  glimmer, 
And  the  early-rising  sun 
Is  reflected  on  the  water — 
Horse  and  trooper  try  to  run. 

"Water  !  water  !"  hearts  are  shouting, 
But  the  voice  of  all  is  still, 
For  their  tongues  are  parched  and  swollen, 
And  they  cannot  speak  until 


SO.VGS  OF    THE   DESERT.  29 


They  have  plunged  into  the  water — 
Blessed  water !  clear  and  deep  ;" 
And  the}-  drink  it  in  so  thankful, 
Hearts  so  glad — for  joy  the}-  weep. 

Ah,  that  water — poison  water  \ 
From  the  copper,  under  ground, 
It  is  charged  with  fatal  poison. 
"See  the  dead  coyotes  around  ! 
The}-  have  drank  this  fatal  water, 
Then  have  fallen  here  and  died  ! 
We  shall  soon  now  all  be  like  them  !" 
Cried  the  terror-stricken  guide. 

Long  the  fate  of  these  brave  troopers 
Was  a  myst'ry  at  the  post, 
But  each  year  a  scouting  party 
Searched  the  desert  for  the  lost. 
And,  at  last,  two  old  prospectors 
This  deceptive  water  found. 
And  were  cautioned  not  to  drink  it, 
Seeing  dead  men  on  the  ground. 

Horses,  troopers,  lying  bleaching, 

Faces  upturned  to  the  sun, 

Their  sad  fate,  by  pencil  written, 

Fluttered  in  the  hand  of  one  : 

"Take  this  message,  who  shall  find  us, 

To  my  mother  far-away. 

Ah,  please  God,  she  may  have  died  ere 

She  shall  tiear  of  this  sad  day. 


SO.\(,'S  OF    THE   VESEA'T. 


"Touch  you  not  this  fatal  water, 
For  by  God  it  is  accurs'd  ; 
It  has  death  within  its  bubbles, 
Oh,  be  tempted  not  by  thirst. 
My  companions  all  have  perished  ; 
I  can  see  them  where  they  lay ; 
And  I'll  be  among  their  number 
Ere  the  closing  of  the  day." 


MORAL. 

There's  a  desert  called  "Ambition," 
Where  men  struggle  hard  for  gain  ; 
Where  the  barren,  parch 'd  condition 
Shows  that  mercy  cannot  reign  : 
Where  a  pool  of  gold  is  standing, 
So  inviting  to  our  thirst, 
And  our  avarice  demanding 
More  and  more,  until  we  burst. 

All  around  this  pool  are  lying 
Bodies  rotting  in  the  sun, 
And  among  them  are  the  dying, 
Who  a  poisoned  drink  have  won  ; 
For  the  water,  impregnated 
With  that  poison — "Love  of  Gold," 
Makes  the  drinker,  dissipated, 
Die  of  agonies  untold. 


SOJVGS  OF   THE  DESERT.  31 


SMOTHERED  THOUGHTS. 


I  have  thoughts  so  strange  and  knowing 

In  1113'  heart, 
And  their  numbers  keep  on  growing — 

Can't  depart. 

Tho'  the  cage  is  never  stout, 
Still  these  thought-birds  come  not  out, 
For  there's  prejudice  about, 
And  there's  superstition  showing 

Her  long  dart. 

Could  I  but  send  these  birds  adrift, 

Like  the  lark, 
They  might  create  a  little  rift 

In  the  dark; 

But  grim  prejudice  would  fall 
On  each  thought-bird,  and  they'd  all 
Become  smothered  in  the  brawl, 
And  the  world  reject  the  gift 

From  the  start. 

So  I'll  cage  these  thoughts  securely, 

And  I'll  try 
To  think  thoughts  like  the  purely; 

Even  I 

Will  not  offend  the  owls, 
Who  look  on  me  with  scowls, 
And  stir  up  savage  growls 
From  all  those  who  think  so  surely 

That  I  lie. 


32  SO.VG'S  OF    THE   DESERT. 


And  I'll  try,  with  coming  age, 

That  which  smothers 

These  thought-birds  in  their  cage, 

And  no  others 

Of  these  thought-birds  be  getting, 
And  keep  them  there  a  fretting, 
Behind  this  cruel  netting, 

Like  their  brothers. 

Oh,  this  world  is  but  a  cage 

To  the  mind 
That  would  step  beyond  the  age. 

And  mankind, 

In  a  blinded,  struggling  crowd, 
Where  the  humble  and  the  proud, 
Are  crying,  long  and  loud, 

Get  behind! 

Trust  the  preachers,  politicians, 

False  and  true, 
And  let  these  modern  magicians 

Think  for  you: 

Let  them  always  take  the  lead, 
Let  them  gauge  your  time  and  speed, 
Follow  blindly,  then,  indeed, 

You  will  do. 

If  they  say  the  world  is  flat, 

Say  so,  too. 
Galileo  found  out  that — 

So  will  you. 


SONGS  <)/•'   Till-.    DIVERT. 


If  they  say,  all  men  who  doubt 
Do  not  know  what  the}-1  re  about. 
Say  so,  too.     If  not  right  out, 
Sav  "um — hoo." 


THE  CUFF  DWELLERS. 


In  the  giant  sand  rock  canyon 

Where  the  stunted  cedars  grow, 
And  the  sunshine  in  abandon 

Parches  dry  the  earth  below  ; 
Far  beyond  the  Mount  La  Plata, 

In  the  lower  Mancos  pass, 
Where  the  ancient  Soangetaha 

Lov'd  the  dusky  mountain  lass. 

From  the  upper  snow  clad  Mesas, 

When  the  snows  begin  to  thaw, 
There's  a  thousand  Minnehahas 

Pouring  down  the  rocky  draw  ; 
Ritshing  off  to  meet  the  river, 

By  some  subtle  power  drawn, 
Where  the  water  flows  forever 

Roughly  down  the  swift  San  Juan. 

Here  are  traces  of  a  nation, 
Dead  to  mem'ry  long  ago  ; 

But  from  lofty  elevation, 

Where  the  stunted  cedars  grow, 


OF    THE   DESERT. 


There  are  castles,  long  since  passing 

Into  ruin,  and  the  dust 
On  the  rocky  floors  amassing, 

Slowly  ages  did  adjust. 

No  one  knows  their  ancient  story, 

And  the  silence  reigning  here, 
Whispers  nothing  of  their  glor}-, 

Nothing  of  their  hopes  or  fear  ; 
But  some  bones  of  human  creatures, 

Yellow  with  their  age  and  rust, 
Skull-bones  showing  human  features, 

Have  been  found  among  the  dust. 

Here  we  know  in  long  dead  ages 

Hearts  did  ache  and  souls  did  love, 
Here  the  youths  and  older  sages 

Watched  fair  Luna  shine  above. 
Here  the  mother  nursed  her  baby, 

Hugged  it  to  her  dusky  breast, 
Sang  some  woodland  ditty,  maybe, 

Until  it  had  sank  to  rest. 

Now  the  silence,  deep  and  painful, 

Fills  your  soul  with  dreadful  awe. 
And  the  raven's  voice  disdainful 

Rasps  your  ear  with  his  shrill  "caw." 
Standing  where  this  nation  perished, 

Knowing  nothing  of  their  strife — 
For  the  secrets  their  hearts  cherished 

Pass'd  awav  with  their  strange  life. 


SONG'S  OF   THE  DESERT.  35 


How  your  soul  is  filled  with  wonder, 

And  you  wish  you  could  be  told 
How  long  since  the  crash  of  thunder 

Shook  their  bodies  into  mould. 
Ah,  perhaps  'twas  long  ere  Moses 

Brought  the  plagues  to  Pharoah's  land, 
This  dead  valley  bloomed  like  roses, 

Tilled  by  a  strange  human  hand. 

Oh,  I  never  dreamed  in  childhood, 

In  my  home  so  far  away, 
There  would  come  a  time  when  I  would 

Stand  where  ages  of  decay 
Melts  the  castles  of  a  nation, 

Crumbles  into  mouldering  dust, 
And  find  in  the  ruination 

Crumbling  skulls  of  3'ellow  dust. 

This  poor  skull  between  my  fingers, 

Cimmerian  darkness  now 
In  each  eyeless  socket  lingers — 

All  is  silence,  and  the  brow, 
Once  filled  with  life's  strange  mystery, 

Now  for  ages  in  repose — 
How  I  long  to  know  the  hist'ry 

None  but  the  Almighty  knows. 


36  SO.\(,'S  OF    THE   DESKRT. 


Y(>r  AND  I  TOGETHER. 


Down  life's  curious  river  we  float, 

You  and  I  together; 
Kach  passenger  in  his  little  boat, 

You  and  I  together; 
In  some  places  the  channel  is  deep, 
With  plenty  of  room  for  each  other's  sweep; 
While  in  other  places  great  rocks  sleep, 
And  their  rough  heads  near  the  surface  peep, 

And  stormy  is  the  weather. 

Shall  we  then  crowd  our  neighbor  ashore? 

You  and  I  together; 
Wrecking  his  boat  and  breaking  his  oar? 

You  and  I  together; 

Shall  we  crowd  him  upon  the  rough  rocks, 
Where  the  human  boat  receives  great  shocks, 
And  the  rushing  waves  his  struggle  mocks, 
And  famine  grim  the  whole  year  stalks, 

Searching  for  our  brother? 

Are  we  brothers,  or  are  we  not  ? 

You  and  I  together; 
Should  we  be  sharing  each  other's  lot? 

You  and  I  together; 
Shall  we  assist  when  storm  clouds  fall, 
And  darkness  settles  down  like  a  pall  ? 
Or  run  away  when  our  neighbors  call — 
Each  one  for  himself  and  the  devil  for  all ; 

Is  this  vour motto,  brother? 


SO.\G'S  OF    THE   DESERT.  37 


Oh,  why  not  lash  together  each  boat? 

You  and  I  together; 
Out  in  the  current  where  all  can  float  ? 

You  and  I  together; 
Oh,  why  not  lend  an  oar,  or  a  sail, 
To  our  poor  brother  about  to  fail  ? 
Why  stop  our  ears  to  his  bitter  wail, 
And  let  him  sink  in  our  own  ship's  trail ! 

Are  we  so  heartless,  brother? 

Great  God,  in  mercy  pity  our  greed  ! 

You  and  I  together; 
And  help  vis  heal  the  hearts  that  bleed, 

You  and  I  together; 
Let  us  tow  our  weak  brother  along 
Down  the  stream,  and  cheer  him  with  song, 
Pull  his  frail  boat  from  out  among 
The  cruel  rocks,  where  the  fierce  sharks  throng 

And  try  to  eat  our  brother. 

Oh,  life  is  only  a  little  trip! 

You  and  I  together; 
And  the  same  God  made  each  little  ship, 

You  and  I  together; 

And  He  launched  us  all  upon  this  stream, 
And  made  our  sails  of  the  bright  sunbeam ; 
And  there  is  room  for  all,  but  it  seems 
We  are  all  too  full  of  greedy  schemes, 

And  try  to  sink  our  brother. 


38  SO.VGS  Of   THE  DESERT. 


LEFT  BEHIND. 


"Go  back,"  he  said  to  the  mongrel  cur. 
When  he  made  an  attempt  to  follow ; 
And  the  dog  laid  down  by  the  cabin  door 
And  licked  his  paws,  while  his  heart  was  sore, 
And  watched  his  master  passing  o'er 
The  desert  sands,  hot  and  mellow. 

This  happened  out  on  the  West  frontier, 
On  the  desert  of  Colorado. 
The  man  was  a  man  without  love  or  fear, 
Who  had  seen,  perhaps,  his  fiftieth  year, 
Whose  eyes  ne'er  shed  a  pitying  tear — 
He'd  the  heart  of  a  desperado. 

His  mission  now  was  to  homestead  land 
On  the  desert  so  dry  and  dreary. 
His  cabin  he  built  with  his  own  strong  hand, 
A  rough  board  shed  on  the  desert  sand, 
And  water  he  brought  from  the  river  Grand, 
And  he  lived  with  his  dog  quite  cheery. 

Now  he  is  going  to  the  far-off  town 
On  his  broncho  so  lean  and  bony  ; 
And  he  cast  behind  one  angry  frown 
At  the  cringing  dog,  now  lying  down, 
Then  cantered  away  towards  the  town 
On  his  lean  and  sad-eyed  pony. 


SONGS  OF   THE  DESERT.  39 


A  week  pass'd  b}-.     The  dog  still  lay 
Where  his  cruel  master  had  left  him  ; 
Looking  and  longing,  da}-  after  day, 
Down  the  trail  where  his  master  rode  away, 
Over  the  dry  sand  parched  and  gray, 
And  of  his  presence  bereft  him. 

Ah,  do  you  think,  had  the  poor  dog  known 
How  his  master  in  town  was  drinking — 
Would  he  have  lain  so  patiently  down, 
With  all  that  painful  silence  around, 
Dying  of  thirst,  and  not  of  a  wound  ? — 
'Twould  have  been  all  the  same,  I'm  thinking. 

"To-morrow  he'll  come,"  the  dog  would  say, 

"I  will  wait  until  to-morrow." 

The  night  passed  on.     The  morning  gray 

Ushered  in  one  more  dreary  day, 

And  the  poor  dog  could  not  go  away, 

But  waited,  and  waited  in  sorrow. 

Is  there  a  god  to  tradition  known 
More  faithful  to  obedience  proving? 
Dying  of  hunger,  and  all  alone  ; 
Dying  without  a  tear  or  a  groan  ; 
Greater  faith  by  man  was  never  shown  ; 
The  equal  of  gods  in  loving. 

"To-morrow  he'll  come,"  the  dog  did  sigh, 

As  darkness  obscured  the  view  ; 

But  in  the  night  grim  death  stalked  by, 


40  .VO.VC/.V  O/'   THE   DESERT. 


And  stilled  his  heart,  and  glazed  each  eye. 
A  martyr  to  love  that  dog  did  die — 
Could  a  god  be  more  faithful  and  true  ? 

His  life  went  out  on  the  desert  breath — 
Oh,  where  did  his  spirit  go  ? 
Could  there  die  a  man  with  stronger  faith  ? 
And  is  there  not,  above  or  beneath, 
Some  record  kept  of  this  noble  death  ? 
And  a  future  reward  also  ? 

Greater  love  than  this  never  was  known, 
A  love  that  is  strong  in  death's  sorrow. 
Dying  for  love's  sake,  without  a  moan, 
For  the  life  he  loved  giving  his  own — 
Will  this  for  his  master's  sins  atone 
In  death's  mysterious  to-morrow  ? 

When  the  wretched  man  came  back  at  last 
He  found  the  poor  dog  laying 
Beside  the  door,  with  his  eyes  closed  fast ; 
Heart  stilled  by  that  silent  hand  which  pass'd 
And  the  wretched  man  stood  there  aghast, 
Too  guilty  even  for  praying. 

Out  of  all  this  mystery,  I  know, 

We  are  promised  a  salvation. 

But  we  are  so  thoughtless  here  below, 

So  painfully  cruel  as  we  go 

Through  this  wicked  world,  to  and  fro, 

Filling  it  with  damnation. 


OF    THE   DESERT.  41 


LITTLE  MAYKRICK. 


It  was  born  in  bleak  November, 
When  the  snow  began  to  fly; 

'Twas  a  meek-eyed,  little  bull  calf, 
With  the  saddest,  dreary  cr}-; 

And  'twould  wag  it's  tail  at  strangers 
While  they  sauntered  slowly  by. 

But  the  weather  growing  colder 
Made  the  little  critter  jump, 

And  the  hair  stood  out  like  bristles 
All  over  its  little  rump; 

But,  in  milking  its  old  mother, 
It  did  not  forget  to  bump. 

But  the  louse  came  in  mid-winter 
To  prospect  upon  that  calf; 

Chewed  the  hair  off  in  great  patches, 
In  a  way  to  make  you  laugh ; 

Soon  his  tail  would  hardly  wiggle, 
While  his  daily  milk  he'd  quaff. 

In  the  early,  balmy  springtime 
When  the  shadflies  filled  the  air, 

All  unbranded  and  unchristened, 
And  without  a  doctor  there, 

This  poor  calf,  so  lean  and  lousy, 
Gently  climbed  the  golden  stair. 


42  SO.Y(7S  OF    THE   DESERT. 


Now,  the  question  here  uprises: 
Who  this  Maverick  will  own 

In  the  pasture  fields  of  Helen, 
Where  it's  spirit  now  has  flown  ? 

For  it  passed  away  unbranded, 
Climbed  the  golden  stair  alone. 

Will  it  find  the  summer  ranges 
Full  of  cattle  men  have  slain  ? 

Waiting  there  to  greet  their  butchers 
And  be  branded  then  again  ? 

Will  they  brand  this  calf  in  Eden 
E're  a  stall  it  can  obtain  ? 


DREAMING  OF  HOME. 


Near  the  graveyard  on  the  Mesa, 

Where  the  sun  forever  shines, 
Glist'ning  on  the  cold,  white  tombstones, 

Brought  from  far-off  marble  mines  ; 
There  I  often  sit  when  lonely, 

Near  the  city  of  the  dead, 
While  the  dreams  of  home  and  childhood 

Softly  come  into  my  head. 

Down  the  road  so  long  and  dust\", 
Weary  horsemen  come  and  go  ; 

Each  one  wears  a  broad  sombrero, 
But  there's  scarcely  one  I  know. 


SO.\GS  OF   THE  DESERT.  43 


Mexicans  so  dark  and  swarthy, 
Riding  ponies  lean  as  death, 

Cowboys  dashing  by  so  madly, 

Horse  and  man  both  out  of  breath. 

I  can  look  across  the  river, 

Far  beyond  the  ragged  town, 
Out  among  the  hills  of  'dobe, 

Where  no  thing  of  life  is  found, 
But  a  bunch  of  stunted  greasewood, 

Growing  in  the  'dobe  clay, 
And  small  bunches  of  coarse  salt  sage, 

Faded  out  like  sun-dried  hay. 

All  the  earth  seems  parch 'd  and  dreary, 

Xo  green  hills  to  rest  the  eye ; 
God  in  Heaven  !   must  I  linger 

In  this  dreary  place  and  die  ? 
Then  I  dream  of  a  fair  valley 

Where  Bald  Eagle  mountains  stand, 
And  where  flows  the  Susquehanna 

Softly  through  that  far-off  land  ? 

Sometimes  on  the  mesa  dreaming, 

Dreams  I  long  and  long  to  tell, 
Far  away  my  heart  goes  yearning 

For  the  water  in  the  well, 
At  the  dear  old  home  of  childhood, 

'Mong  the  everlasting  hills, 
Where  I  used  to  sit  in  summer 

List'ning  to  the  whip-poor-wills. 


44  SaYf/.S    or    THE   DESERT. 


And  sometimes  my  wife  beside  me 

Wonders  wh}- 1  am  so  still, 
Looking  o'er  the  lifeless  desert 

Out  toward  the  'dobe  hill ; 
And  sometimes  sad  tears  of  longing 

On  my  lashes  she  espies, 
But  she  thinks  I  look  too  eager, 

And  the  sunlight  hurts  my  eyes. 

There  are  many  poor  hearts  aching 

On  this  dry  Pacific  slope, 
Toiling  in  the  burning  sun  rays, 

Cheered  alone  by  this  one  hope  : 
That  some  day  the  wheel  of  fortune, 

In  its  slow,  xincertain  turn, 
May  enable  them  to  journey 

Back  to  where  their  poor  hearts  yearn. 

But  each  week,  out  on  the  Mesa, 

To  the  graveyard  at  this  place, 
Slowly  moves  the  hearse  and  coffin, 

Dragging  out  a  cold,  white  face  ; 
Some  poor  heart  has  ceased  its  yearning, 

And  the  dreams  of  hope  have  fled ; 
None  but  God  will  know  the  stor}- 

Of  the  poor,  heart-broken  dead. 


.V>.Vr;.V  OF    THE   DESERT.  45 


OBLIVION. 


Deep  in  a  Colorado  canyon — 

So  the  story  goes — 
Two  Spaniards  bold, 
Prospecting  for  gold, 

Near  where  a  small  creek  flows, 
Heard  the  roar  of  a  might}'  storm  above, 

And  the  waters  rushing, 
And  the  mine  was  filled, 
The  miners  killed, 

By  the  great  flushing. 

Great  rocks  rolled  and  filled  up  the  canyon, 

And  the  prospect  hole 
Was  hidden  from  sight, 
In  the  storm's  great  might. 

Now  the  waters  roll 
And  tumble  forever  above  them, 

And  none  but  God  knows 
Each  horrified  face, 
In  this  hiding  place, 

Where  they  now  repose. 

And  the  coyotes  howling  above  them, 

And  the  eagle's  call, 
And  the  ravens,  high 
In  the  azure  sky, 

While  the  cougars  crawl 


46  SO.VG'S  OF    THE  DESERT. 


Over  the  rocks  which  conceal  this  tomb 

Where  the  miners  fell. 
Oblivion  deep — 
Oblivious  sleep ! 

None  their  story  tell. 

And  the  howling  winds  of  winter, 

And  falling  snow; 
Then  comes  balmy  spring, 
The  summer  birds  sing — 

They  all  come  and  go: 
But  under  the  rocks  they  are  lying, 

Those  men  so  clever; 
Oblivion  deep, 
Oblivious  sleep — 
Sleep  on  forever ! 

But  how  much  better  will  be  my  fate? 

Even  tho'  my  tomb 
Is  bathed  with  tears 
Of  loved  ones,  for  years. 

There  still  is  gloom; 
And,  tho'  my  story  is  known  to  men. 

How  long  will  it  be 
Until  none  but  God 
Knows  where  the  sod 

Covers  up  poor  me? 

Oblivion  !    'tis  only  to  be 

Forgotten  by  all. 
Whether  low  or  deep 
The  place  where  we  sleep — 

Whether  great  or  small — 


.SO.\<;S  OF    THE  DESERT.  47 


Soon,  soon  will  this  great  oblivion 

All  trace  dissever : 
Sleep  on,  thou  sleeper  ! 
The  shadows  grow  deeper ; 

Sleep  on  forever  ! 


O-XA-WEE-TA. 


NOTE. — Many  years  ago  there  was  a  battle  fought  in  Arizona 
between  United  States  troops  and  a  band  of  Indian  cattle  thieves, 
in  which  many  poor  soldiers  were  killed.  One  poor  fellow  was 
wounded  very  badly,  but  he  clung  to  his  horse,  and  was  carried 
many  miles  from  the  place  before  he  fell  from  his  saddle.  He 
landed  in  a  dense  thicket  of  manzanita  brush,  where  he  was  found 
by  an  Indian  maiden,  who  nursed  him,  and  even  shot  and  wounded 
her  old  father  in  defense  of  the  poor  fellow.  The  young  couple 
were  afterwards  married,  and  also  forgiven  by  the  fierce  old  warrior. 

Down  where  the  water  flows, 

Soft  music  purling, 
Smoke  from  the  teepee  rose, 

In  the  zephyrs  whirling; 
Songs  of  the  summer  birds 

In  the  manzanita, 
Mingle  with  the  gentle  words 

Of  O-na-wee-ta. 


Pride  of  the  warrior's  eye, 
Fierce  old  Wah-hee-tah, 

Eyes  like  the  midnight  sky, 
vSweet  O-na-wee-ta : 


48  so.vas  or  THE  DESERT. 


Singing  like  a  summer  bird 

In  the  manzanita, 
Sweeter  voice  was  never  heard 

Than  O-na-wee-ta's. 

Out  in  the  chaparral 

Lay  a  wounded  soldier; 
Found  at  last  where  he  fell 

By  a  fair  beholder : 
Hunting  for  the  timid  hare 

In  the  manzanita, 
She  found  the  soldier  there — 

Sweet  O-na-wee-ta. 

Kindly  she  dressed  his  sores, 

Took  sweet  broth  to  him, 
In  his  wounds  some  ointment  pours, 

Gently  did  woo  him. 
Father  followed  her  one  day — 

Fierce  old  Wah-hee-tah — 
Found  where  the  soldier  lay 

In  the  manzanita. 

Fiercely  he  draws  his  knife, 

Eyes  shine  with  murder; 
Daughter  cries,  "Spare  his  life  !  " 

But  he  never  heard  her : 
Soon  then  a  pistol  flash 'd 

In  the  manzanita, 
Through  his  arm  a  bullet  crash'd — 

Brave  O-na-wee-ta ! 


OF    THE   DESERT.  49 


' '  Touch  not  the  sick  pale-face  ! 

I  stand  above  him; 
Tho'  he  's  not  of  my  race, 

Father,  I  love  him  ! 
'Twas  the  Great  Spirit  led  me 

To  the  manzanita, 
And  soon  he'll  wedded  be 

To  his  O-na-\vee-ta. ' ' 

Loudly  the  warrior  curs'd, 

Fierce  old  \Vah-hee-tah; 
For  revenge  his  heart  did  thirst 

On  O-na-wee-ta; 
But  soon  he  did  relent, 

Fierce  old  \Vah-hee-tah: 
There's  a  marriage  in  the  tent — 

Happ\-  O-na-wee-ta  ! 


MV    CHURCH. 


The  religion  I  want  is  mere}', 
Love,  charity,  and  justice  for  all; 
A  church  that  will  welcome  the  lowly, 
And  stoop  to  pick  up  those  who  fall. 
But  a  faith  that  asks  God  for  mercy, 
In  a  world  where  laboring  men  call 
In  vain  for  a  share  of  God's  blessings, 
For  shame  !   'Tis  no  religion  at  all. 


50  SONG'S  OF    THE  DESERT. 


ALONE  BY  THE  RIVER. 


The  day  was  so  dreary  and  sober, 

The  leaves  had  turned  yellow  and  sere, 

It  was  in  melancholy  October, 

The  saddest,  sad  month  of  the  year — 
The  lonesomest  month  of  the  year  : 

Death  comes  to  nature  to  disrobe  her, 
To  strip  her  boughs  naked  and  bare. 

And  the  trees  stand  solemn  and  sober, 
Like  images  standing  in  prayer. 

In  silence  I  walk  by  the  river. 

That  swift  flowing  river — the  Grand, 

Where  the  sun  on  the  wavelets  shiver, 
As  they  tumble  ashore  on  the  sand — 
Ashore  on  the  gold-bearing  sand  : 

And  the  glint  of  the  sunbeams  quiver 
On  the  pebbles  reflecting  their  rays, 

But  my  thoughts  are  ever  and  ever 
Flowing  back  to  my  childhood  days. 

Oh,  why  am  I  here  by  this  river — 
Here  walking  and  dreaming  alone  ? 

And  wh}-  do  I  tremble  and  shiver, 
And  my  willing  exile  bemoan — 
My  melancholy  exile  bemoan? 

Oh,  why  do  these  yellow  leaves  falling 
From  the  cotton  wood  trees  on  the  shore, 

Remind  me  of  childhood  friends  calling, 
But  drowned  by  the  river's  deep  roar? 


OF    THE    DESERT.  51 


\Vhy  can  I  not  search  for  bright  pebbles 
As  I  walk  on  the  beach  of  the  Grand? 

And  why  are  my  thoughts  such  great  rebels  ? 
Going  back  to  that  far-off  land — 
That  dear,  old,  cherished  far-off  land. 

These  shadows  on  the  swift  river  dancing, 
Are  they  the  ghosts  of  my  lov'd  ones  dead  ? 

For  something  my  heart  is  entrancing, 
And  this  loneliness  fills  me  with  dread. 


Right  here  on  this  sand  where  I'm  walking 
The  Indians  in  past  years  have  trod  ; 

They  have  listened  to  the  Grand  river  talking, 
For  the  voice  of  the  water  was  God — 
The  murmuring  water  was  God  : 

While  out  on  the  Mesa  the  jaguar 
And  coyote  for  venison  strove, 

And  the  beautiful,  blood-thirsty  cougar 
Looked  down  from  the  crag's  peak  above. 

But  now,  in  this  month  of  October, 

There's  silence  and  sadness  around, 
And  the  trees,  standing  silent  and  sober, 

Are  dropping  their  leaves  on  the  ground — 

The  alkali-salt-covered  ground : 
And  the  Indians  have  all  cross'd  the  river, 

And  gave  to  the  white  man  their  land, 
And  the  water  has  wash'd  out  forever 

Their  tracks  from  the  soft  yielding  sand. 


52  SO.\(,'S  OF    THE   DESERT. 


And  those  of  that  tribe  now  still  living- 
May  be  somewhere  walking  alone  : 

And,  instead  of  heartfelt  thanksgiving, 
Their  dreary,  forced  exile  bemoan — 
Their  long,  compelled  exile  bemoan  : 

And  the  ghosts  of  the  men  fierce  and  sober 
Who  fought  by  the  side  of  Onray, 

May  have  come,  like  the  frosts  of  October, 
To  carry  some  new  life  away. 

Thus  dreaming  I  walk  by  the  river, 

The  canyon-walled  river — the  Grand, 
And  I  wonder,  so  sadly,  if  ever 

I'll  walk  in  that -far-off,  dear  land? 

'Mongst  the  hills  of  that  far-off  land  : 
And  I  gaze  in  the  water,  so  sober, 

While  I  dig  with  my  heel  in  the  sand, 
And  I  wonder  if  ever  October 

Was  so  sad  in  that  far-off  land. 


CASTING  BREAD. 


Cast  your  bread  upon  the  hungry, 

Not  on  water,  as  'tis  said, 
And  they'll  return  to  you  quite  often- 

Those  that  hunger,  not  the  bread. 
Bread  that's  cast  upon  the  water 

Never  will  return  again  ; 
For  it  soon  dissolves  to  batter, 

Or  in  sour  wads  remain. 


S  OF    THE  DESERT.  53 


A  SLIGHT  MISTAKE. 


On  the  battle  field  of  Gettysburg  a  wounded  soldier  lay; 

A  cannon  ball  had  come  along  and  torn  his  leg  awa}-. 

A  scarred  old  veteran  came  that  way,  cheering  himself  with 

songs, 

A  genuine  old  soldier  boy  whose  hair  stood  out  in  prongs. 
"Oh  carry  me  from  this  dreadful   place!"   the   wounded 

soldier  moaned; 

The  smoky  comrade  picked  him  up  and  lazily  he  groaned. 
With  the  wounded  soldier  on  his  back  he  held  him  by  each 

hand, 
And,  ev'ry  step,  the  poor  man's  blood  stream'd  down  and 

stained  the  sand. 

"Where  are  you  hurt?"  the  comrade  ask'd  the  wounded 

man  aloft. 
"A  cannon  ball,"  he  made  reply,    "has  torn  my  right  leg 

off." 

"An1  so  it  is  your  laig,  comrade,"  the  soldier  soothing  said. 
And  just  then  came  a  cannon  ball  and  took  also  the  head. 
But  the  wounded  soldier  scarcely  kicked,  so  sudden  was 

the  blow; 
And,  death  thus  coming  like  a  flash,  his  comrade  did  not 

know, 
But  went  jogging   from  the  battle  field,  toting  his   load 

along; 
Never  thinking  of  blood  or  death,  but  humming  low  a 

song. 


54  so.\r;s  OF  THE  DESERT. 


But  a  captain  met  him  by  and  by,  who  closely  scanned  his 

load; 
And  when  he  saw  the  headless  trunk,   said,  "Drop  it  in 

the  road ! 
This  man  is  dead  as  dead  can  be — his  head  is  shot  clean 

off!" 
The  comrade  dropped  his  heavy  load  and  gave  an  angry 

cough. 
"Wai,  dod  durn  him,  when  I  picked  him  up,  as  sure  as 

my  name's  Waig, 
He  told  me  he  was  wounded  bad,  but  said  it  was  his  leg ! 


BEDTIME. 


Bedtime,  and  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep, 

\Yhile  the  moon  shines  brightly  overhead; 

And  the  shadows  lengthen  out  and  creep 
In  through  the  window  upon  my  bed; 

But  before  I  sleep  I  take  a  peep 

Into  the  past,  where  my  years  have  fled. 

I  see  a  dark  room  with  rafters  bare, 

And  three  small  beds  in  the  shadows  deep; 

And  I  know  the  little  sleepers  there, 
So  very  weary  and  fast  asleep. 

And  over  the  hill  the  whip-poor-will 

Echoes  the  chirp  of  the  little  "knee-deep.' 


OF    THE   DESERT. 


Those  happy  nights  of  the  long  ago  ! 

When  three  little  brothers  lay  awake, 
Counting  the  rain  drops  falling  slow, 

Laughing  loud  at  each  other's  mistake; 
And  the  cricket's  call  in  the  chimney  wall 

Such  doleful  music  all  night  does  make. 

Bedtime — happiest  hour  of  all 

To  the  weary  man  going  to  rest, 
With  a  conscience  clear  to  rest  I  fall. 

So  like  a  child  on  its  mother's  breast; 
And  while  I  sleep,  the  long  shadows  creep 

Over  my  face  from  the  moon-lit  west. 

Bedtime — oh  !  when  the  last  night  shall  come, 
And  the  shadows  dark  around  me  fall, 

And  the  gloom  of  death  hangs  o'er  my  home, 
And  I  faintly  hear  my  loved  ones  call; 

Oh  !  ma}'  I  dream,  and  death  but  seem 
A  child-like  slumber  for  us  all. 


THERE  IS  NO  FRIENDSHIP. 


There  is  no  such  thing  as  friendship. 
I  learned  this  truth  of  late  ; 
To  the  millions  we  are  indifferent, 
While  a  few  we  love — and  hate. 


56  mV(/.S"  OF    THE   DESERT. 


THE  CURSE  OF  COLORADO. 


There's  a  curse  on  Colorado, 

There's  a  Hell  at  Cripple  Creek, 
Where  the  golden  Eldorado 

Grows  more  wicked  every  week  ; 
Where  the  virgin  soil  is  tainted 

With  the  murder 'd  strikers'  blood, 
And  on  ev'ry  face  is  painted  : 

I  am  making  gold  my  god. 

There  are  many  lone  graves  hidden 

In  the  woods,  beyond  Bull  Hill, 
Where  deputies  have  ridden, 

Who  were  sworn  to  slay  and  kill ; 
And  the  thunders  cannot  waken 

Those  who  sleep  beneath  the  sod, 
But  each  night  .some  life  is  taken 

In  this  place  where  gold  is  god. 

Here  the  lights  all  night  are  burning, 

And  the  game  is  always  on, 
And  bad  men  to  demons  turning, 

Through  the  gold  they  lost  or  won  ; 
Here  the  harlots,  thieves  and  devils, 

Have  their  coarse  hands  stained  with  blood, 
And  a  thousand  other  evils 

Reign  where  gold  alone  is  god. 


SONG'S  OF   THE   DESERT. 


One  would  think  the  elevation, 

(Ten  thousand  feet  above  the  sea,) 
Would  bring  it  in  close  relation 

To  the  God  of  Galilee  ; 
But  the  sun,  from  its  position, 

Ev'ry  morning  finds  new  blood 
Staining  this  pocket  edition 

Of  Hell,  where  gold  reigns  as  god. 


THE  ACCURSED  CITIES. 


Accursed  cities  !  say  Nature's  laws; 

Where  streets  stand  gaping  like  mighty  jaws, 

And  all  the  glittering  scenes  within 

Are  hiding  some  dark  and  bestial  sin, 

And  luring  strangers  therein  to  walk, 

By  rash  promises  and  idle  talk. 

Too  soon  those  buildings  become  a  wall, 

To  drown  the  groans  and  dying  call 

Of  the  poor,  polluted  human  beast, 

Who  is  forced  on  plunder  there  to  feast; 

And  where  virtue  is  as  little  known 

As  saints  in  hades,  and  the  moan 

Of  poverty,  and  hunger,  and  death, 

Mingle  with  the  drunken  dancer's  breath. 

Accursed  cities  !  say  honest  priests, 
Who  see  their  brothers  in  sinful  feasts; 
For  the  minister  who  reads  the  signs 


58  SONGS  OF   THE   DESERT. 


On  faces  where  intemperance  reigns, 
Knows  of  the  dark  hell  raging  within 
The  poor  soul,  drunken  to  drown  its  sin. 
And  each  pinched  face  seen  on  the  street, 
And  all  the  naked,  shivering  feet, 
And  all  the  rags  and  thread-bare  clothes, 
And  even-  trace  of  human  woes, 
Speak  of  poverty  and  sore  distress 
In  words  which  law  cannot  suppress, 
Even  tho'  the  rich  would  wish  it  done, 
And  imprison  ev'ry  pauper's  son. 

Accursed  cities  !  the  rivers  say, 

Where  foul  sewers  empty  ev'ry  day, 

And  the  filth  of  millions  stain  the  streams, 

Which  were  created  pure  as  dreams. 

Accursed  cities  !  whisper  the  winds, 

Coming  laden  with  the  scent  of  pines; 

But,  when  passing  through  the  filth}-  towns, 

Sobbing  and  sighing  with  many  frowns, 

Millions  of  germs  they  carry  away, 

To  spread  disease  for  many  a  day; 

And  the  smell  of  filth,  and  smoke,  and  gas, 

Are  carried  over  the  tender  grass; 

And  Nature  shrinks  from  the  filthy  scent, 

Saying,  Accursed  cities  !  you  need  repent. 

Give  me  the  desert,  with  barren  sand, 
WTith  desolation  on  ev'ry  hand, 
WTith  its  dreaded  silence,  bleaching  bones, 
Where  the  winds  sigh  in  such  mournful  tones, 


SO^'GS  OF    THE   DESERT.  59 


And  all  is  desolation  and  waste, 
And  even  the  winds  of  alkali  taste, 
And  the  sun  shines  down  with  furnace  heat, 
And  nowhere  grows  a  spear  to  eat, — 
(live  me  this,  instead  of  wicked  towns, 
Where  oppression  forever  abounds; 
Where  men  feast  on  their  neighbor's  toil, 
And,  in  the  rush  and  fierce  turmoil, 
The  poor  are  trampled  to  the  ground, 
And  God's  mercy  is  but  seldom  found. 

Accursed  cities  !  where  congregate 

Those  who  by  plunder  make  themselves  great; 

The  gay  and  gaudy  aristocrat, 

The  tyrant  and  the  autocrat, 

The  money-lender,  rent-collector, 

Sweat-shop  owner  and  slave-director, 

Courtesan,  the  gambler  and  thug, 

The  libertine  with  pitfalls  dug; 

And  all  those  who  do  not  honest  toil, 

But  live  on  the  honey  and  the  oil 

Of  all  the  world's  best  products,  and  then 

Are  posing  as  fine  gentlemen. 

Accursed  cities !  ruination 

Of  our  boasted  civilization. 

And  I,  too — writer  of  these  lines, 
Knowing  how  well  h\-pocrisy  shines; 
Knowing  how  the  rich,  by  usury, 
Force  the  poor  into  penun,-; 
Knowing:  how  the  churches  hide  the  men 


6o  SO.YGS  OF    THE   DESERT. 


Who  rob  the  poor,  then  come  back  again 
And  on  the  altar  some  plunder  lay; 
And  kneeling  before  their  God,  do  pray 
That  He  ma}-  bless  the  suffering  poor, 
And  make  their  sinful  souls  quite  pure. 
And  the  preachers,  looking  on  these  men, 
Accepting  their  gold,  and  knowing  when 
And  where  they  get  it,  as  well  as  you, 
I  sav,  Oh,  accursed  cities!  too. 


DON'T  FORGET  YOUR  MOTHER. 


Last  week  brought  a  pleading  letter 

From  a  mother  whom  I  know, 
Asking  if  I'd  seen  her  Edward, 

Who  had  left  her  long  ago. 
"He  was  in  your  town,  they  tell  me, 

WThen  the  railroad  strike  was  on  ; 
Have  you  met,  among  the  strangers, 

Edward,  1115-  proud,  dashing  son? 

"'Five  long  years  ago  he  left  me, 

Just  because  I  did  object 
To  his  going  with  some  young  men 

Whom  I  never  could  respect. 
And  he  cursed  me  in  his  anger, 

Fiercely  slammed  the  door  behind, 
But  if  I  could  only  see  him, 

I  would  treat  him,  oh,  so  kind ! 


SO.V(,'S  OF    THE  DESERT.  61 


"In  my  dreams  I  see  my  Edward, 

And  I  hear  him  call  for  me, 
And  at  times  I  dream  of  sitting 

With  my  Edward  on  my  knee. 
If  he  knew  how  I  was  yearning 

Just  to  see  him  once  again, 
He  would  hasten  to  his  mother, 

And  would  cure  this  great  heart  pain. ' ' 

Tell  me,  mothers,  could  I  tell  her, 

Form  the  words  with  pen  or  tongue, 
That  the  son  she  loved  so  dearly 

For  horse  stealing  had  been  hung  ? 
Could  I  tell  her  that,  through  gambling, 

He  had  often  killed  for  gain, 
That  he  was  a  drunken  demon, 

Worse,  far  worse,  than  bloody  Cain  ? 

All  I  did  was  simply  tell  her 

That  her  son  had  gone  awa\-, 
And  expressed  a  hope  that  they  would 

Meet  again  some  happy  da\'. 
I  have  noticed,  in  most  cases, 

And  it  should  be  set  to  song, 
When  a  boy  forgets  his  mother, 

There  is  always  something  wrong. 

Boys  may  go  the  wide  world  over, 
Seeking  wealth  with  all  their  might, 

If  their  hearts  are  true  and  loving, 
They  will  not  forget  to  write ; 


62  SO.VGS  OF   THE   DESERT. 


But  when  days  are  spent  in  gambling, 
Nights  in  drinking  and  in  song, 

When  the  boy  forgets  his  mother, 

Mother  knows  there'  s  something  wrrong. 


THE  OLD  STONE  FENCE. 


The  old  stone  fence  near  the  corn  shed, 

Where  the  chipmonks  hid  their  corn, 
Where  the  wasp  and  wicked  hornet 

With  their  nests  the  stones  adorn  ; 
Where  the  tom-cat  sat  to  listen, 

Watching  for  the  timid  mouse  : 
How  his  cruel  eyes  would  glisten 

When  he  turned  towards  the  house. 

Eather  built  the  fence  one  Summer 

To  inclose  the  orchard  trees  ; 
It  was  cheaper,  far,  than  lumber, 

And  would  last  eternities. 
And  beside  it  grew  the  thistle, 

Briar-bushes,  and  the  thorn, 
Where  the  Summer  birds  would  whistle 

So  merrily  night  and  morn. 

On  the  fence  I  have  been  sitting 
When  the  bars  were  opened  wide, 

For  the  cows  would  leave  off  picking, 
And  no  longer  would  abide 


OF    THE  DESERT.  63 


In  the  field,  among  the  bushes, 

Where  the  thorns  and  thistles  grew, 

But  each  critter  quits,  and  rushes 
To  the  gap,  and  gazes  through. 

Longing  for  the  grass  beyond  there, 

Growing  'mongst  the  orchard  trees. 
There  they  stand  all  day  and  wonder 

\Vhy  they  can't  go  where  they  please 
Exactly  like  the  human  creature, 

Looking  at  the  legal  wall 
Which  surrounds  the  gifts  of  nature, 

Given  for  the  use  of  all. 

How  like  cattle  we  are  standing — 

We,  the  toilers,  and  the  poor, 
By  the  open  gap,  demanding 

We  shall  be  fenced  out  no  more. 
But  the  gap  is  watched  by  giants  : 

Oppressors,  lawyers,  judges,  slaves, 
Soldiers,  menials,  and  tyrants, 

And  'tis  money  buys  these  braves. 

And  the  stone  wall  near  the  corn  shed 

Father  built  around  the  trees, 
Had  its  wasp  and  wicked  hornet, 

And  the  festive  bumble  bees  ; 
And,  like  lawyers,  they  are  lying 

For  a  victim  near  their  nest ; 
Just  so  soon  as  one  they're  spying 

There's  commotion  and  unrest. 


64  SO.VGS   OF    THE.    DESERT. 


Ah,  how  often  in  the  bosom 

Of  my  trousers  I  have  found 
Feeling  so  unearthly  gruesome 

That,  with  one,  great,  mighty  bound, 
I  have  bounded  from  the  stone  wall, 

Like  a  thief  pursued  by  law, 
And  the  might}-,  awful  shrill  squall 

Filled  the  bell-cow's  heart  with  awe. 

Thus  the  walls  of  law  and  bowlders 

For  protection  were  created, 
But  the  careless,  blind  beholders 

Know  not  these  walls  are  related  : 
But  thej-'re  both  chock  full  of  leeches, 

And  scorpions,  wasps,  and  bees, 
And  they'll  bite  clear  through  your  breeches, 

And  just  prod  you  at  their  ease. 


GOD  NEVER  WILLED  IT  SO. 


A  million  dollar  church  for  God, 

Damp  cellars  for  poor  labor, 
Carpets  where  the  priests  have  trod, 

Cold  stone  floors  for  our  neighbor. 
God  has  never  willed  it  so, 

By  precept  or  by  fable  ; 
When  sending  Jesus  Christ  below 

He  chose  for  Him  a  stable. 


SO.VGS  OF   THE    DESERT.  6.5 


THE  SHEEP  HERDER. 


Out  upon  the  drear}-  mesa, 

On  the  'dobe  plains  so  bare, 
I  first  met  poor  Casimero, 

Herding  sheep  in  silence  there; 
For  the  upper  range  was  buried 

Deep  beneath  the  ice  and  snow, 
And  the  bleating  sheep  were  hurried 

To  the  barren  plains  below. 

All  day  long  in  silence  brooding, 

As  he  walked  among  the  sheep. 
Watching  them  the  plains  denuding, 

Walked  he  dreaming,  half  asleep. 
He  'd  not  learned  the  art  of  reading, 

And  his  world  was  very  small, 
And  the  flock  he  now  was  leading 

Was  to  him  his  world  and  all. 

Casimero  loved  a  maiden, 

Senorita  Corrillo, 
And  his  thoughts  were  ever  laden 

With  sweet  dreams  of  Mexico. 
And  the  silence  helped  his  dreaming 

As  he  walked  among  the  sheep, 
Starting  at  the  raven's  screaming, 

Like  a  child  disturbed  in  sleep. 


66  .s-avr/.v  OF  THE  DESERT. 


One  day  o'er  the  plains  came  riding 

On  a  broncho's  weary  back, 
With  a  broad  sombrero  hiding 

Kyes  like  summer  midnight  black ; 
Said  he:   "Is  this  Casimero, 

Of  Chihuahua,  Mexico?" 
And  his  eyes  looked  on  our  hero 

With  a  yearning  love-lit  glow. 

vStarted  he,  and  almost  fainted, 

For  the  accent  of  that  voice 
To  his  ears  was  long  acquainted, 

And  his  heart  stops  to  rejoice. 
Wide  he  holds  his  arms,  and  crying: 

' '  Senorita  Corrillo  ! ' ' 
And  into  his  strong  arms  flying 

Leaps  the  maid  of  Mexico. 


THE  WISE  BOY. 


There's  the  bad  boy,  and  the  glad  boy, 

And  the  boy  with  his  trousers  torn, 

The  ready  boy,  the  steady  boy, 

And  the  boy  who  is  all  forlorn  ; 

But  the  boy  who  is  bound  to  succeed  in  life, 

Wear  starched  shirt  and  stand-up  collar, 

Is  the  boy  who  knows,  by  the  flush  on  his  nose, 

When  its  best  to  strike  dad  for  a  dollar. 


()F    THE  DESERT.  67 


THE  STRANGER. 


What  is  life?  and  who  am  I? 

What  are  these  strange  things  one  sees? 
Tho'  I  try,  and  try,  and  try, 

Conscience  will  not  rest  at  ease. 

All  around  strange  faiths  and  creeds, 

All  around  I  hear  men  pray; 
Shaking  in  the  wind  like  weeds 

On  a  dreary  autumn  da}-. 

Men  are  pointing  overhead 

To  the  place  where  great  stars  shine, 
Saying  it  is  where  the  dead 

Wafted  are  by  laws  divine. 

This  world  seems  so  very  cold 

That  without  love  one  would  freeze; 

Yet  my  host  I  ne'er  behold, 
And  I  feel  not  at  my  ease. 

And  sometimes  I  feel  adrift 

On  some  mysterious  sea; 
Clouds  of  gloom  without  a  rift 

Seem  to  hover  over  me. 

Through  this  world  I  daily  roam, 
Like  a  captive,  tho'  I  'm  free; 

Feel  a  stranger  in  my  home, 
Watched  by  eves  I  cannot  sea. 


OF    THE   DESERT. 


All  the  works  of  ages  do 

Seem  to  tell  me  I  am  small — 

That  some  ruling  power,  too, 
Watches  sternly  over  all. 


PLEADING  EYEvS. 


Eyes  of  pale  blue,  meek  and  pleading, 

Little  faces  looking  old, 
Little  bare  feet  chapped  and  bleeding, 

Little  bodies  pinched  with  cold; 
I  was  startled  by  their  knocking 

Ere  I  opened  up  my  door, 
For  I  had  been  sitting,  rocking, 

\Yith  my  eyes  upon  the  floor. 

Two  wee  little  boys  were  standing 

Just  outside  the  parlor  door, 
And  the  eldest  one  demanding: 

"Do  you  ever  help  the  poor? 
Would  you  like  to  buy  some  honey  ? 

We  have  nice  pound  boxes  here; 
And  our  mamma  needs  the  money — 

Papa  is  much  worse  this  year. 

"  Papa  he  has  got  consumption, 
Sits  all  day  among  the  trees, 

Seldom  stops  to  get  a  luncheon, 
For  he  works  among  the  bees; 


SONGS  OF    THE  DESERT.  69 


And  we  try  to  sell  the  honey — 

Little  brother  Tom  and  me, 
Giving  mamma  all  the  money, 

And  it  helps  her  much,  you  see. 

' '  We  are  only  four  now,  mister — 

Tom  and  Jamie,  me  and  Clyde; 
For  we  buried  little  sister 

In  the  winter,  when  she  died." 
Looking  in  those  little  faces, 

Seeing  eyes  a-pleading  so, 
There  I  seemed  to  see  the  traces 

Of  my  own  self,  years  ago. 

When  I  used  to  gather  berries, 

Peddle  them  from  door  to  door — 
Ah,  great  God  !  how  fast  life  hurries 

Burdens  on  the  struggling  poor. 
Pale  blue  eyes  look  up  so  pleading, 

Set  in  faces  looking  old. 
For  you  my  poor  heart  is  bleeding, 

For  I  know  your  life  is  cold. 

Oh,  there's  such  a  tender  feeling 

In  my  bosom  pulls  and  sways, 
Mem'ry  at  my  feet  is  kneeling, 

Pointing  back  to  far-off  days; 
And  these  little  pleading  faces 

Bring  back  thoughts  of  former  years, 
And,  in  speaking,  there  are  traces 

In  my  voice  of  pensive  tears. 


SONGS  OF   THE   DESERT. 


NOVEMBER. 


Cold,  cheerless  month  of  November, 

When  clouds  are  so  somber  and  gray; 
They  bring  back  always  to  mem'ry 

The  shadows  of  joys  pass'd  away. 
I  sit  looking  into  the  fire, 

While  shadows  dance  over  the  floor, 
And  bleak  winds  outside  flowing  higher, 

And  searching  the  world  for  God's  poor. 

Just  hear  it?     Shrieking  and  howling, 

And  threaten  to  break  down  the  door. 
It  seems  I  can  hear  it  growling : 

"I'm  after  God's  miserable  poo-o-o-r!" 
See  it  lash  the  trees  into  furies, 

Dash  the  water  high  on  the  shore, 
While  shrieking,  howling,  it  hurries 

In  search  of  God's  miserable  poor. 

"  What  have  they  done,  these  poor  people!' 

The  chimney-top  asks  of  the  wind, 
As  it  rushes  past  the  church  steeple, 

With  dead  leaves  trailing  behind. 
"  Are  you  the  poor  people's  keeper? 

If  I  freeze  them,  what  is  it  to  3-011?" 
And  the  wind's  hard  voice  sounds  deeper 

As  it  hurried  bv  with  a  "  woo-oo-o-o !" 


SOWS  OF   THE  DESERT.  71 


"All,  the  poor  people  have  no  keeper!" 

Said  the  chimney-top  with  a  sigh; 
"And  justice  is  such  a  sound  sleeper — 

He  sleeps  while  the  poor  people  die. 
And  I  must  see  the  world  suffer, 

And  treat  the  affair  as  a  joke; 
Just  like  the  millionaire  duffer — 

Stand  back  and  do  nothing  but  smoke." 

But  the  wind  blew  saucy  as  ever 

Around  the  chimney  so  mute, 
Even  reaching  down  so  clever 

And  grabbing  a  handful  of  soot, 
And  went  on  shrieking  and  howling 

And  trying  at  each  cottage  door, 
Then  off  again,  wickedly  growling  : 

"The  poo-o-o-r,  the  miserable  poo-o-o-r!' 

I  sit  by  the  fire  and  shiver 

When  I  hear  the  wind's  cruel  voice, 
And  wonder  why  the  Good  Giver 

Allows  the  cold  wind  to  rejoice. 
If  the  rich  would  only  remember, 

And  go  searching  from  door  to  door, 
Along  with  the  winds  of  November, 

And  temper  the  winds  for  the  poor! 


.SY>.V6'.V  OF    THE   DESERT. 


FLOWERS  MY  MOTHER  LOVED. 


Last  night  upon  my  pillow  dreaming 

Of  scenes  so  old, 
Sweet  visions  of  the  past  came  streaming, 

Like  the  old  stories  told. 
One  vision  lingered  there  for  hours; 

My  heart  was  moved; 
For  then  I  saw  the  dear  old  flowers, 

Flowers  that  1113'  mother  loved. 

All  'round  the  flower  bed  I  wandered, 

Like  when  a  boy, 
Where  long  ago  the  days  I  squandered, 

Each  hour  fill'd  with  joy. 
And  there  again  I  saw  my  mother, 

From  death  removed; 
And  once  again  we  bent  together 

Over  the  flowers  she  loved. 

Those  flowers  that  are  so  ungainly 

And  out  of  date, 
I  see  them  once  again  so  plainh- 

Down  at  the  old  garden  gate: 
There's  dahlias,  and  poppies,  and  locust, 

And  yellow  rose, 
Hollyhocks,  marigolds,  and  crocus, 

Down  where  the  sweet  pink  grows. 


SONGS  OF    THE  DESERT.  73 


There's  the  tiger-lily,  and  belle-flower, 

In  red  and  blue; 
Tulips,  larkspurs,  the  snow-drop  bower, 

Bright  in  the  morning  dew  : 
Morning-glories,  sweet  pans\r  faces, 

Sent  from  above ; 
Clover  blossoms  in  the  odd  places — 

Flowers  of  my  mother's  love. 

And  there  was  the  daffodil  blooming 

Like  as  of  old, 
And  little  bach 'lor  buttons  looming 

Like  little  stars  of  gold. 
There  were  blue-flags,  and  lilacs  bending 

Where  sweet  peas  roved, 
And  the  sweet  shrubs  their  fragrance  blend- 
ing 

With  the  flowers  1113"  mother  loved. 

And  living  thus  again  with  mother, 

Holding  her  hand, 
And  seeing  once  again  my  brother, 

Oh,  such  a  dream  is  grand  ! 
But  soon  the  vision  fades  in  waking, 

Gone  is  all  joy  ; 
I  weep  as  tho'  1113-  heart  is  breaking, 

Just  like  a  home-sick  boy. 


74  SOXGS  OF   THE  DESERT. 


THE  WEARY  WANDERER. 


Back  in  the  dear  old  homestead 

Among  the  orchard  trees, 
Before  I  had  any  friends  dead, 

And  the  lightest  Summer  breeze 
Was  not  so  light  and  jolly 

As  that  boyish  heart  of  mine, 
And  no  thought  of  melancholy 

Could  cause  me  to  repine. 

Bvit  all  day  long  went  dreaming 

Among  the  orchard  trees, 
Where  light  through  the  leaves  came  streaming 

As  they  danced  in  the  Summer  breeze. 
But,  after  awhile,  I  tired 

Of  living  always  at  home, 
And  more  and  more  desired 

A  few  brief  years  to  roam. 

I  dreamed  of  towns  and  cities, 

Of  countries  far  away, 
And  all  my  songs  and  ditties, 

As  I  worked  among  the  hay, 
Were  about  the  tramp  and  rover 

Who  roam  the  land  and  sea  ; 
And  I  wish'd  my  boyhood  over, 

And  I  a  tramp  could  be. 


SONGS  OF   THE  DESERT.  75 


I  pictured  the  broadest  river 

Where  steamboats  come  and  go, 
Where  waves  in  moonlight  shiver, 

And  the  world  is  all  aglow 
With  wealth,  and  pride,  and  treasure, 

And  the  heart  of  man  is  free  ; 
And  I  thought,  O,  Lord  !  such  pleasure 

Would  be  a  Heaven  to  me  ! 

But  now  I'm  sadly  dreaming 

Of  that  home  among  the  trees, 
Where  sunlight  now  is  streaming 

Among  the  dancing  leaves  ; 
And  I'm  tired,  oh,  and  weary  ! 

And,  if  I  could  only  see 
That  old  home,  once  so  dreary, 

How  happy  I  would  be  ! 

For  the  world,  with  all  its  treasures, 

With  all  its  rivers  wide, 
Can  never  bring  the  pleasures 

Of  that  dear  old  fireside. 
Oh,  for  the  dear  old  faces 

Which  never  again  I'll  see  ! 
Above  all  other  places, 

Is  that  dear  old  home  to  me. 


76  SO.VGS  OF   THE  DESERT. 


WHO  SPOILED  THE  POET. 


Poets  write  gaily  of  flowers, 

And  slobber  and  simper  of  love  ; 
They  write  of  the  birds  by  the  hours, 

Sing  wild  of  the  stars  up  above  : 
They  call  it  imagination, 

Or  the  vivid  flight  of  tme  thought ; 
It  would  be  low  degradation 

To  write  of  the  kettle  or  pot. 

To  set  the  angels  to  chiming, 

Is  the  true  poetical  twirl — 
There's  nothing  at  all  that's  rhyming 

In  the  name  of  a  working  girl. 
To  write  of  creatures  titanic, 

Makes  heroic  verses,  I'm  sure, 
And  praise  to  the  name  satanic, 

Is  better  than  lauding  the  poor. 

They  write  of  Kings  and  Princes, 

Their  trials,  their  hopes,  and  their  pride 
You  ought  to  see  how  one  winces 

To  write  of  the  beggar  who  died. 
I'm  sick  of  the  modern  poet, 

I'm  sick  of  the  old  masters,  too  ; 
They're  hypocrites,  and  you  know  it — 

If  you  don't,  then  I'm  sick  of  you. 


SOXGS  OF   THE    DESERT. 


Why  sing  all  the  time  of  Heaven  ? 

Forgetting  the  crude  things  below. 
Are  eagles  to  music  given 

Far  more  than  the  raven  or  crow  ? 
The  loft}"  peak  of  the  mountain  - 

Is  it  nearer  to  God 
Than  the  foot-hHs,  where  the  fountain 

Has  carpeted  earth  with  a  sod  ? 

'Tis  not  the  fault  of  the  poet — 

'Tis  the  reader  demanding  bosh  ; 
The  world  is  silly — they  know  it, 

And  they  give  it  pumpkin  for  squash. 
They  know  the  world  is  aesthetic, 

Brought  up  in  the  aesthetic  school, 
And  pin-sic,  or  an  emetic, 

Has  the  same  effect  on  a  fool. 


MY  DOUBTS. 


If  our  God  we  cannot  please 

By  loving  our  poor  neighbor, 
Need  we  our  Creator  tease 

With  our  love  and  labor  ? 
Shall  God  still  forgive  our  sin, 

While  we  pinch  our  debtor  ? 
Do  these  dollars  we  rake  in 

Make  our  hard  hearts  better  ? 


78  SO.VGS  OF   THE   DESERT. 


BACK  AGAIN. 


Seventy-five  I  am  to-day, 

My  teeth  are  gone,  my  hair  is  gray  ; 

But  it  does  seen:  the  shortest  dream 

Since  I  set  sail  on  life's  rough  stream. 

I  sailed  in  a  circular  course  away, 

With  heart  so  light,  dancing  all  day, 

And  now  I  trace  the  starting  place — 

In  ev'ry  nook  I  see  a  face 

That  long  ago  sailed  out  with  me 

On  life's  strange,  mysterious  sea. 

I'm  back  again  to  childhood's  port, 

My  thoughts  are  all  of  the  old  sort, 

And  mem'ry  seems,  with  childhood  dreams, 

To  harmonize  the  two  extremes, 

And  only  thoughts  come  back  to  me 

I  gathered  at  my  mother's  knee. 

Again  I  feel  I'd  love  to  kneel 

Down  at  her  feet,  and  there  appeal 

For  her  dear  loving  hand  again 

To  lead  me  through  this  world  of  pain. 

Again  my  father's  face  I  see — 

Out  through  shadows  it  smiles  on  me  ; 

My  brothers,  too,  come  into  view, 

All  smiling  as  they  use  to  do  ; 

My  sisters  all  smile  up  to  me, 


SONGS  OF   THE  DESERT.  79 


Just  like  the  old  times  use  to  be, 
And  old  dog  Gale,  with  wagging  tail, 
I  see  him  coming  down  the  trail 
Where  the  wild  rabbits  use  to  run, 
And  gave  us  boys  tremendous  fun. 

'Tis  three  score  and  ten  years — ah  me  ! 
Since  I  clung  to  my  mother's  knee. 
The  trip  is  o'er,  I'm  back  on  shore — 
Back  to  the  starting  place  once  more. 
And  there's  no  mem'ry  left  to  me, 
No  faces  that  I  use  to  see, 
Except  the  few  around  me  grew 
In  childhood,  now  again  in  view  : 
Only  this  niem'ry  is  left  to  me 
As  I  look  over  life's  rough  sea. 


THE  CONTRAST. 


Little  trousers,  great  big  holes, 
Corporations  without  souls, 
Little  wages,  great  big  work, 
Small  men  suffer,  big  men  shirk, 
Little  feet  with  great  big  smell, 
Little  heaven,  great  big  hell : 
Thus  in  life  I'm  finding  all 
The  real  good  things  awful  small. 


8o  SONGS  OF   THE   DESERT. 


WHILE    BETSEY  PLAYED    THE    ORGAN. 


Betsey  at  the  organ  playing 

"Home,  sweet  HOME,"  that  plaintive  song 
At  my  feet  the  old  dog  staying, 

Stops  to  listen,  sighs  ere  long. 
Does  he  hear  my  own  heart  sighing, 

While  ni}*  thoughts  go  far  away  ? 
For  he  starts  a  dismal  crying, 

Just  as  tho'  his  lips  would  say  : 

"Master,  I  know  how  you're  thinking 

Of  the  home  of  former  days, 
And  your  heart  is  softly  drinking 

These  sad  thoughts  the  organ  plays  : 
To  your  mind  it  brings  a  shadow 

Of  the  old  home  'mongst  the  trees, 
And  you  seem  to  see  the  meadow, 

Hear  the  sighing  Summer  breeze." 

Does  he  see  that  home  neglected 

On  the  iris  of  my  eye — 
Picture  of  that  home  reflected, 

Which  I  see  myself,  and  sigh  ? 
Does  the  music  softly  ringing 

Both  our  hearts  in  mem'ry  lave  ? 
Do  familiar  voices,  singing, 

Seem  to  come  back  from  the  grave? 


SONGS  OF    THE   DESERT.  81 


Does  he  see  my  pale  lips  quiver  ? 

Sad  tears  from  my  lashes  start  ? 
While  dear  Betsey,  God  forgive  her, 

Plays  "Sweet  Home"  upon  my  heart? 
Cease  your  moaning,  dog  or  devil, 

For  you  read  my  soul  too  well ! 
Beast  of  sympathy,  or  evil, 

Can  you  future  scenes  foretell  ? 

Will  I  see  this  dear  home  ever 

Where  my  childhood  mem'ries  sleep? 
Where  around  the  door  so  clever 

Morning  glories  use  to  creep  ? 
But  the  old  dog  ceases  crying, 

Lays  his  head  upon  the  floor, 
Moans  in  answer  to  my  sighing, 

Seems  to  say  :   "Oh,  never  more  !" 

Are  your  moans  commiserate 

For  the  longings  in  my  breast  ? 
Will  I  ever  leave  this  desert 

For  the  old  home  in  the  East  ? 
And  the  organ  still  is  crying 

While  the  old  dog  on  the  floor 
Seems  to  answer  to  my  sighing  : 

"Never,  never,  never  more  !" 


82  SONGS  OF   THE  DESERT. 


HAPPY!  HAPPY  NEW  YEAR! 


Happy  new  year,  here  you  are  ! 
You're  not  welcome,  I  declare. 
If  you  know  how  sad  I  am, 
You  would  know  I'm  playing  sham. 
When  I  say  I  welcome  you 
Back  again,  like  folks  all  do. 
What  care  you  for  such  as  I  ? 
What  care  you  how  soon  I  die  ? 
You  are  only  moving  on, 
Doing  work  you  cannot  shun. 
Ev'ry  year  you  come  around, 
Walking  on  the  frozen  ground, 
Calling  me  a  weakly  thing, 
Caring  not  if  in  the  spring 
Pneumonia  or  consumptive  cough 
Comes  and  snatches  me  right  off. 

Happy  new  year  !  bah,  such  bosh  ! 
Hand  me  down  my  Mackintosh  ; 
You  are  bringing  rain  or  snow 
Ev'ry  time  your  face  you  show. 
You  are  counting  wrinkles,  too, 
On  my  face,  were  lines  you  drew  ; 
Stroking  down  my  scanty  hair, 
To  observe  the  silver  there  ; 


SONGS  OF   THE  DESERT.  83 


Patting  me  on  my  bald  place, 
Saying  I've  run  all  to  face ; 
Bearing  on  with  bad  intent, 
Just  to  make  my  body  bent : 
Touch  my  teeth  with  foul  decay, 
Take  my  keen  eye-sight  away. 
Happy  new  year  !  bah,  such  stuff! 
How  we  liars  play  you  bluff! 

Happy  new  year!  now  that's  rum 

Since  we  hate  to  see  you  come  : 

Even  maidens,  old  and  tough, 

Try  to  play  on  you  this  bluff; 

Treat  you  in  a  style  so  soft, 

But  ashamed  to  tell  how  oft 

You  have  pass'd  them  on  the  road, 

Since  in  market  they  have  stood 

Waiting,  as  their  friends  all  know  ; 

Fishing,  too,  to  catch  a  beau. 

They'd  a  durn  sight  rather  you 

Never  came  back  into  view, 

Unless  it  should  be  your  plan 

To  fetch  that  long-looked-for  man  ; 

And  each  year  then,  with  the  snow, 

Bring  some  fresh  heir,  don't  you  know? 


SONGS  OF   THE  DESERT. 


LOOKING  DOWN  THE  ROAD. 


There's  a  curious  melancholy 

Seems  to  fall  upon  the  mind, 
When  we  remember  friends  so  jolly 

Who  are  strewed  along  the  line; 
And  it  seems  to  be  such  folly 

Looking  down  the  road  behind; 
Oh,  such  melancholy  foil}-, 

Looking  down  the  road  behind. 

When  I  look  down  this  road  behind  me, 

Where  the  plant  of  mem'ry  blooms, 
Chains  of  sorrow  come  and  bind  me, 

And  then  lead  me  through  Death's  rooms; 
Memory's  tendrils  then  entwine  me, 

As  I  walk  among  the  tombs: 
Oh,  sad  recollections  find  me, 

As  I  walk  among  the  tombs. 

And,  all  along  this  road,  the  living 

Are  so  swiftly  turning  gray, 
And  stern  nature — unforgiving, 

Is  carrying  them  away: 
It  is  so  melancholy  living 

Among  gloomy  tombs  all  day — 
Oh,  such  melancholy  living, 

Looking  at  these  graves  alwa>r. 


OF    THE  DESERT.  8s 


Looking  down  this  road  at  sunset, 

Through  the  opalescent  light — 
Far  down  life's  narrow  runlet, 

Until  lost  in  mem'ry's  night, 
Where  we  boys  had  so  much  fun,  yet 

So  much  labor  in  life's  fight : 
Oh,  I  seem  to  be  the  last  one  left, 

Walking  in  the  tombs  to-night. 

Oh,  I  am  sad  to-night,  don't  mind  me, 

And  I  seem  no  longer  brave; 
For  each  step  down  the  road  behind  me 

Seems  to  be  an  old  friend's  grave; 
And  the  shadows  all  remind  me 

That  the  happiness  I  crave 
Is  not  down  the  road  behind  me, 

Where  each  footstep  strikes  a  grave. 

The  links  of  friendship  time  did  sever 

Lay  along  this  road  behind, 
And  I  see  old  faces  clever 

Beaming  on  me,  loving,  kind: 
Friends  are  gone  from  this  life  forever — 

I  am  weeping — never  mind; 
I  will  try  my  best  endeavor 

To  forget  this  road  behind. 


86  SONGS  OF   THE  DESERT. 


A  CHILD  OF  FATE. 


On  the  banks  of  the  Bald  Eagle, 

Many,  many  years  ago, 
There  was  born  of  humble  parents, 

When  the  skies  were  filled  with  snow, 
A  little  son,  weak  and  fragile, 

With  a  slender  hold  on  life  ; 
But  he  lived  and  grew  to  manhood, 

Battled  with  a  world  of  strife. 

Years  of  struggles,  years  of  danger, 

Midst  them  all  he  lived  and  grew  ; 
Three  times  the  Bald  Eagle  water 

Hid  his  bare-foot  form  from  view. 
But  each  time  the  boy  was  rescued, 

And  brought  back  again  to  life  ; 
Child  of  fate  and  circumstances, 

Born  to  hardships  and  to  strife. 

Far  across  the  troubled  ocean, 

Where  the  Danube  waters  flow, 
There  was  born  a  German  maiden, — 

Who  she  was  you  soon  will  know  ; 
For  her  parents  were  ambitious, 

And  a  feeling  of  unrest 
Filled  their  souls  with  a  strange  longing 

For  a  land  far  in  the  West. 


SO.VGS  Of   THE   DESERT.  87 

And  this  little  German  maiden 

Cross'd  the  might}*,  trackless  sea  ; 
Left  behind  a  narrow  kingdom, 

Found  this  broad  land  of  the  free. 
Fate  had,  too,  prepared  a  lover 

For  the  little  German  maid, 
And  the  boy  from  the  Bald  Eagle 

In  her  presence  one  day  strayed. 

What  strange  law,  and  what  strange  reason 

Caused  her  young  heart  to  beat  ? 
And  the  boy  from  the  Bald  Eagle 

Lays  his  poor  heart  at  her  feet. 
Why  should  these  two  meet  as  lovers  ? 

Why  should  both  hearts  palpitate  ? 
What  strange  law  brought  them  together  ? 

If  it's  not  the  hand  of  fate. 

These  two  strange  souls  were  united  ; 

Fate  ordained  it  should  be  so ; 
Sons  were  born,  and,  of  that  number, 

There  is  one  GRIT  readers  know. 
If  the  boy  from  the  Bald  Eagle, 

And  the  maid  from  Danube's  shore, 
Were  not  brought  by  fate  together, 

And  each  other  to  adore ; 

If  the  waters  of  Bald  Eagle, 

When  they  swallowed  up  the  lad, 
Had  not  been  robbed  of  their  viclim, 

Would  the  maid  a  lover  had  ? 


SONGS  OF    THE   DESERT. 


If  they  had  not  met  as  lovers, 
And  five  sturdy  sons  begat, 

If  they  ne'er  had  seen  each  other, 
Where,  oh,  where  would  I  be  at ! 


MY  CREED. 


Loving  man  has  been  my  creed, 

With  pity  for  the  lowly  ; 
Binding  hearts  where  sorrows  bleed, 

This  working  passage  slowly 
O'er  the  rugged  stream  of  life, 

Where  mortal  man  is  sailing, 
Ships  are  sinking  in  the  strife, 

And  hearts  of  Captains  failing. 
If  I  see  my  brother's  ship 

Crippled  beyond  sailing, 
I  must  help  retain  his  grip, 

And  lend  a  hand  at  bailing. 


ART. 


The  dog  with  the  sa wed-off  tail, 
And  the  dudelet,  so  awfully  smart, 

And  the  summer  girl  dressed  like  a  male- 
They  are  all  a  poor  work  of  art. 


SONGS  OF   THE  DESERT. 


THOUGHTS  ON  THEOSOPHY. 


Why  do  I  dream  of  things — 
Shadows  of  unknown  wings — 
Sleep  to  my  mem'ry  brings 

While  in  repose  ? 

Whence  come  these  thought-light  beams, 
Even  in  mid-day  dreams? 
Life  a  strange  myst'ry  seems — 

Only  God  knows. 

Thoughts  I  ne'er  heard  before 
Knock  at  my  memory  door. 
Pass  away,  come  no  more 

To  me  again; 
Then,  on  some  other  day, 
Stranger  thoughts  come  to  stay, 
Burdens  upon  me  lay, 

Where  joy  has  lain. 

Has  my  soul,  all  unknown, 
From  an  existence  flown, 
Where  it  has  slowly  grown, 

Beyond  our  ken  ? 
Has  this  soul  I  hold  dear — 
Passing  through  trials  here — 
Lived  on  this  mundane  sphere 

In  other  men  ? 


90  .SY>:\Y7.S-  OF    THE   DESERT. 


And,  in  the  years  to  come, 
Must  this  world  be  its  home, 
Go  back  into  the  womb, 

Be  born  again  ? 
Must  it  this  cold  world  trod, 
And,  ere  it  goes  abroad, 
Become  as  pure  as  God — 

Free  from  all  stain  ? 

If  this  soul  is  to  live 
With  its  God,  I  believe 
We  our  poor  souls  deceive 

With  death  and  pain; 
For  death  is  but  a  rest, 
Soul  freed  from  mortal  breast: 
When  God  knows  it  is  best, 

We  live  again. 

If  God  created  all 

Long  ere  poor  Adam's  fall, 

All  He  needs  is  to  call 

Souls  from  the  air; 
And,  at  a  new  child's  birth, 
Souls  that  belong  to  earth 
Send  a  companion  forth, 

Child-life  to  share. 

So  may  it  ever  be, 
Until  each  soul  is  free ; 
All  of  God's  love  to  see, 
And  be  His  own : 


SO.\GS  OF   THE  DESERT. 


Life  here  is  but  a  day, 
Death  but  a  night,  they  say; 
Ages  must  pass  away 

Ere  we're  full  grown. 

What  do  we  know  of  life 
Outside  its  pain  and  strife? 
All  sorts  of  faith  is  rife — 

Who  knows  the  right? 
Better  far  not  to  know, 
Else  God  would  tell  us  so, 
And  we  must  groping  go 

Out  in  the  night. 


SOCIETY. 


Proudly  marching,  dainty  feet, 

Hands  too  soft  for  using  ; 
Blood  wrung  from  poor  hearts  they  eat- 

Ah,  'tis  so  amusing 
Walking  on  the  upturned  face 

Of  a  starving  neighbor, 
Crushing  hands  at  ev'ry  pace, 

Crushing  hearts  with  labor. 
Lordly  castles  dripping  blood, 

Where  sighs,  like  zephyrs,  blowing  ; 
Silks  and  satin  steeped  in  flood 

Of  widow's  tears,  while  sewing. 


92  SO\GS  OF   THE  DESERT. 


LIFE. 


Oh,  Life,  you  are  the  strangest  thing  ! 

Poets  of  your  mystery  sing. 

None  know  the  place  whence  you  have  come, 

Or  why  you  left  your  far-off  home. 

In  my  own  body  you  did  creep 

At  some  time  while  I  lay  asleep. 

I  do  not  know  where  we  first  met; 

I  try  to  think  it  out,  but  yet 

I  cannot  think  of  any  time, 

Of  such  oblivion  sublime, 

When  you  and  I  were  set  apart. 

And  there  was  silence  in  my  heart; 

When  these  two  eyes  were  closed  and  blind, 

And  no  thought  lived  within  my  mind, 

When  I  could  neither  feel  nor  think — 

Without  a  thought  or  bare  instinct — 

When  I  was  scattered  in  the  air, 

In  the  earth,  and  everywhere, — 

Now  where  did  you  exist,  ere  we 

Were  joined  in  this  strange  mystery? 

Oh,  was  it  in  the  day  or  night 
When  first  we  met?  and  was  it  right 
That  you  should  dwell  within  my  skin 
Without  permission  to  move  in  ? 


SOXG'S  OF   THE  DESERT. 


And  when  3-011  forced  my  heart  to  move, 
Was  it  selfishness  or  love? 
And  all  these  little  aches  and  pains — 
Of  which  a  mem'ry  still  remains — 
Within  my  little  body  frail, 
When  doctors  tried,  without  avail, 
To  make  you  live  more  at  your  ease, 
And  not  so  much  my  body  tease, — 
Were  you  then  of  Death  afraid  ? 
And  were  calling  loud  for  aid? 
Were  then  each  pain  and  ache  your  cry, 
To  warn  me  that,  if  you  should  die, 
The  air  would  me  dissolve  again, 
And  put  me  back  where  I  had  lain 
Before  you  came  in  search  of  me, 
And  brought  me  out  of  mystery  ? 


Oh,  Life,  tell  me,  are  we  true  friends? 
Since  nature  sometime  soon  intends 
To  part  us,  and  drive  you  away, 
And  turn  my  bod}-  to  decay, 
Why  don't  you  let  me  speak  to  you? 
Why  don't  we  meet  in  friendship  true? 
Why  don't  you  tell  me  all  you  know, 
And  what  you  think  of  things  below  ? 
Why  can't  you  tell  me,  out  of  love, 
If  there  is  a  great  world  above  ? 
Where  you  will  go  when  you  depart, 
And  leave  but  silence  in  my  heart. 
Are  you  immortal — do  you  know? 


94  SONGS  Of   THE   DESERT. 


Oh,  tell  me  all  this  ere  you  go. 

Tell  me,  tell  me,  oh,  tell  me  true ! 

What  relation  am  I  to  you  ? 

And  why  this  silence,  oh,  my  friend? 

Or  do  you  cruelly  intend 

To  go  off  some  sad,  dreary  da}-, 

And  leave  my  body  to  decay? 

Ah,  Life,  are  you  but  part  of  me? 
Is  it  with  my  dim  eyes  you  see  ? 
Is  it  with  my  weak  heart  you  feel, 
And  in  like  mortal  weakness  kneel 
Down  at  the  feet  of  myst'ry  deep — 
Where  all  the  tongues  of  knowledge  sleep, 
And  will  not  answer  those  who  ask 
The  gods  of  mystery  to  unmask; 
And  show  us  mortals  all  we  crave 
To  know  of  things  beyond  the  grave  ? 
Ah,  Life,  you  may  be  asking  me 
Concerning  these  strange  things  \ve  see: 
You  may  imagine  that  'tis  I 
God  has  intended  shall  not  die; 
And  you  may  wonder  where  I  go, 
When  I  have  disappeared  below. 
Oh,  if  we  had  a  language  known 
To  both  of  us,  how  very  soon 
At  loggerheads  we  both  would  be, 
Discussing  immortality. 


SO.YGS  OF   THE  DESERT. 


95 


LIFE'S  BLOODY  BATTLE. 


Oh,  life  is  only  a  battle, 

With  poverty  and  disease ; 
I  hear  all  around  the  rattle 

Of  the  falling  yellow  leaves  : 
Yellow  leaves  that  fought  all  summer 

Against  the  hail  and  the  frost ; 
The}-  fall  now  without  a  murmur ; 

They  fought  to  the  death — and  lost. 

The  storms  beat  down  on  the  mountains, 

The  ocean  lashes  the  shore, 
The  streams  charge  down  from  the  fountains 

Like  gladiators  at  war  : 
There's  no  time  for  words  or  praying, 

There  is  no  time  for  remorse  : 
Hold  fast  where  the  great  rocks  are  laying, 

And  onl}-  be  moved  by  force. 

The  birds  and  the  beasts  are  fighting, 

The  big  fish  eat  the  small  ; 
But,  true  as  I  am  writing, 

There's  only  defeat  for  all. 
In  life's  fight  there  is  no  quarter, 

So  brace  your  back  to  the  wall  ; 
Your  blood  will  mix  with  the  mortar, 

And  stain  the  earth  where  you  fall. 


96  SO.VGS  Of   THE  DESERT. 


Are  you  weary  fighting,  brother  ? 

Do  you  wish  the  battle  o'er? 
Would  you  swop  this  world  for  another, 

Where  mortals  never  explore? 
Ah,  you  dare  not  shirk  this  battle, 

Or  refuse  a  warrior's  grave  ; 
You  must  fear  not  death's  harsh  rattle, 

For  the  world  loves  only  the  brave. 


A  BAD   COUGH. 


There's  the  whooping  cough, 

And  consumption  cough, 
But  the  very  worst  cough,  I  declare, 

Is  to  take  your  mash, 

And  cough  up  your  cash 
For  the  heathen,  at  a  church  fair. 

There's  the  whisky  cough, 

And  dyspeptic  cough, 
But  the  cough  that  will  Christians  surprise, 

Is  to  never  shirk, 

But  cough  up  good  work 
Until  you  land  in  Paradise. 


SO.VGS  OF   THE  DESERT.  97 


MYSELF. 


I  wonder  if  some  writer,  in  future  years, 

Will  write  a  biography  of  me. 
And  will  he  know  of  my  struggles,  and  my  tears, 

And  how  ambitious  I  use  to  be? 
No ;  no  one  will  know  the  secrets  of  my  soul, 

Xo  one  will  know  my  longings  and  strife, 
No  one  will  know  how  I  tried  to  reach  the  goal, 

No  one  will  know  my  most  secret  life. 

Will  he  call  me  by  the  name  I  long  have  known, 

And  say  to  the  world :   "He  was  a  man 
Who  never  had  inspirations  of  his  own — 

His  soul  was  of  the  prosaic  plan  ?' ' 
And  will  the  world  then  think  it  knows  my  story, 

After  reading  those  few  careless  lines  ? 
Believing  that  I  simply  wrote  for  glory  ? 

And  not  for  paltr}-  dollars  and  dimes  ? 

Are  they  onh-  noble  who  write  for  glory — 

Who  have  large  fortunes  alread}-  won, 
Whose  ancestors  have  always  lived  in  story — 

Who  ask  praise  only  for  all  they've  done? 
And  shall  I,  because  I  have  written  for  bread, 

Be  despised  for  my  lowly  labor  ? 
Spoken  of  in  pity  after  I  am  dead, 

By  my  aristocratic  neighbor  ? 


98  SONGS  OF   THE  DPLSERT. 


They  will  never  know  my  history — never ! 

There  is  a  world  within  me  unknown, 
Even  to  myseff,  and  this  world  forever 

Shall  be  a  desert  when  life  has  flown. 
For  even  I  am  yet  a  total  stranger 

Within  these  strange  walls  of  flesh  and  bone  ; 
Trembling  so  often  at  some  unknown  danger, 

And  fearing  to  meet  grim  Death  alone. 

No  !  nobody  will  ever  tell  my  secrets, 

For  no  one  can  read  my  secret  mind  ; 
They  will  know  not  my  longings,  sorrows,  regrets, 

And  these  are  the  life  of  all  mankind. 
Even  could  my  own  eyes  look  back  and  see, 

From  that  strange  dreamland  beyond  the  tomb, 
Ah,  they  might  drop  a  pitying  tear  for  me, 

Knowing  how  blindly  I  met  my  doom. 

Even  my  dearest  friends,  who  daily  see  me, 

Know  not  the  strange  secrets  of  my  mind  : 
And  do  you  think,  when  death  at  last  shall  free  me, 

All  my  secrets  will  be  left  behind  ? 
No ;  when  I  leave  this  world  of  pain  and  sorrow, 

My  longings  shall  melt  into  the  air, 
And  the  whole  world,  after  death's  to-morrow, 

Will  forget  that  I  was  ever  here. 


OF   THE  DESERT.  99 


PHILOSOPHY  OF  THE  HAT. 


The  man  who  wears  his  hat  on  the  back  of  his  head, 
With  his  hair  pasted  down  on  his  forehead, 

You  can  make  up  your  mind  that  his  pride  is  not  dead, 
Tho'  his  looks  may  be  utterly  horrid. 

If  he  wears  his  beaver  down  over  his  ear, 

And  then  tilted  his  one  eye  quite  over, 
He  feels  good  enough  to  have  thousands  a  year, 

And  is  up  to  his  crupper  in  clover. 

If  he  tilts  the  brim  downward  square  over  his  eyes, 

And  cocked  up  behind  like  a  feather, 
Oh,  you'll  find  him  a  trickster  then,  to  your  surprise; 

And  you'll  not  be  long  trav'ling  together. 

If  he  wears  his  new  hat  square  on  top  of  his  head, 

And  it  looks  as  tho'  it  was  too  small, 
You  may  make  up  your  mind  that  he's  genteelly  bred, 

But  no  good  to  the  big  world  at  all. 

If  he  wears  his  hat  firmly,  and  squarely,  and  straight, 

Neither  cocked  up  in  front  nor  behind, 
He  may  carry  a  brain  that  is  moving  the  state, 

With  a  heart  that  is  loving  and  kind. 


SO.VGS  OF    THE   DESERT. 


But,  if  it  seems  crowded  far  down  on  his  ears, 
And  they  look  so  lopped-over  and  flabby, 

He's  either  a  skinflint,  grown  harder  with  years, 
Or,  he  may  be  half-witted  and  shabby. 

So  be  careful,  young  man,  how  you're  wearing  your  hat, 
For  your  character  shines  out  from  under; 

And  the  people  who  see  you  will  put  you  down  pat, 
For  a  man,  or  a  nuisance,  by  thunder. 


MY  FARM. 


When  a  bo\-  I  use  to  labor 

Ev'ry  summer  on  the  farm, 
For  1113-  richest,  nearest  neighbor, 

Doing  work  of  ev'ry  form. 
In  the  hot  sun,  weak  and  weary, 

How  I  often  longed  for  shade  ! 
How  I  envied  farmer  deary, 

And  positions  longed  to  trade. 

How  I  wished  to  be  the  owner 

Of  a  farm  with  such  broad  fields, 
For  I  thought  I  'd  ten  times  sooner 

Live  on  what  the  rich  soil  yields, 
Than  to  work  for  such  small  money 

Fourteen  hours  ev'ry  day, 
Like  the  poor  bee  storing  hone3" 

For  some  one  to  take  away. 


SO.VGS  OF   THE  DESERT. 


One  day  my  old  father,  guessing 

What  was  passing  in  my  mind. 
Said,  "There  is  no  use  thus  distressing 

Your  head  with  thoughts  of  this  kind; 
For  you  own  a  territory 

Richer  than  these  fields  are  here, 
Where  you  can  win  cash  and  glory, 

If  you  go  to  plowing  there. 

You've  a  casket  filled  with  treasure 

That  will  each  year  profit  yield; 
In  the  shade,  and  at  your  pleasure, 

You  can  cultivate  this  field. 
And  it  needs  no  fertilizer, 

If  you  cultivate  with  care, 
And  ev'ry  year  be  growing  wiser, 

If  you  do  }-our  plowing  there. ' ' 

Since  that  day  I  have  been  toiling 

In  the  field  of  which  he  spoke, 
But  at  first  it  seemed  hard  moiling — 

Aching  heart  at  every  stroke. 
Bitter  weeds  in  corners  growing — 

Weeds  of  envy  and  disdain; 
These  I  pulled  up,  so  well  knowing 

The}-  would  smother  golden  grain. 

Now  that  field  is  paying  profit 
More  than  Clean,-' s  whole  estate, 

And  its  fruit — a  sample  of  it 
Is  in  this  tale  I  relate. 


SONGS  Or   THE   DESERT. 


'Twas  my  think-pot  I've  been  plowing, 
Raising  nonsense  for  the  press. 

"Small  potatoes,"  you're  avowing — 
Well,  they  '11  pa}-  to  dig,  I  guess. 


DEvSERT  HEART. 


Out  on  the  desert  the  scorching  heat 
Down  on  the  barren  gray  sand  does  beat, 
So  hot  that  it  burns  the  trav'ler's  feet, 

And  the  earth  is  crying  for  rain  : 
Far  in  the  distance  the  whirl -winds  dance, 
Over  the  sand  hills  they  gaily  prance, 
While  the  great  silence  our  souls  entrance, 

And  our  heart  sings  this  sad  refrain  : 

Where  are  the  flowers  which  bloom  in  spring, 
And  to  the  desert  their  fragrance  bring  ? 
Here  is  the  dry  stem,  poor  withered  thing, 

Left  bleaching  since  touched  by  Death. 
Ah,  where  are  the  joys,  of  my  soul  a  part, 
Joys  of  life's  spring  time,  before  the  smart 
Of  sorrows  left  their  stems  in  my  heart; 

How  they  rattle  in  mem'ry's  breath  ! 


SO.VGS  Of   THE  DESERT.  103 


Now  life  is  but  withered  stems  to  me, 
Death  is  the  desert  Eternity; 
After  I  cross  it  what  will  there  be? 

Is  there  water  beyond  the  range? 
Plodding  along  in  the  desert  sand, 
Passively  holding  to  Hope's  frail  hand, 
Shall  we  cross  over  to  some  fair  land  ? 

Ah,  neighbor,  this  journey  seems  strange. 

Hand-boards  erected  along  the  way 
Speak  of  a  country  where  endless  day 
Reigns  forever,  and  there,  too,  the}1  say, 

Sweet  flowers  forever  will  bloom. 
This  land,  they  say,  is  beyond  our  ken, 
Never  beheld  by  the  eyes  of  men; 
"Tis  only  a  dream  land — ah,  then, 

It  leaves  us  so  much  to  presume. 

Alone  I  'm  walking  the  desert  sand, 
Even  unclasped  from  hope's  frail  hand, 
Going  blindly  to  that  unknown  land, 

Simply  going  because  I  must. 
With  all  the  pain  from  sun's  heat  severe, 
While  all  the  flowers  begin  to  sear, 
I  would  rather  stay  forever  here, 

Than  go  back  to  the  desert  dust. 


104  SOJ\'GS  OF   THE    DESERT. 


MY  LOVE  STORY. 


Oh,  wasn't  it  strange  to  you  and  me, 

When  we  sat  in  the  parlor  long  ago; 

Both  hearts  as  loving  as  love  could  be, 
And  we  said  that  through  all  eternity 
I  belonged  to  you,  and  you  to  me, 

And  your  eyes  were  bright  with  love's  sweet  glow. 

We  knew  of  a  parting  soon  to  come 
That  would  take  you  thousands  of  miles  away, 

And  we  thought  of  it  like  creatures  dumb  ; 

It  seemed  so  hard  to  be  parted  from 

The  one  we  loved,  and  the  dear  old  home 
Seemed  full  of  sadness  that  autumn  day. 

Oh,  how  we  lingered  that  autumn  day, 
And  my  hand,  unthinking,  your  hand  sought; 
Your  drooping  head  on  my  shoulder  lay, 
And  we  thought  of  you  going  far  away, 
And  the  only  words  of  hope  we  could  say  : 
Our  love  is  too  pure  to  come  to  naught. 

I  slipped  a  ring  on  your  passive  hand, 
And  kissed  the  lips  upturned  to  mine, 

And  thought  to  myself,  oh,  love  is  grand  ! 

No  sweeter  blessing  could  gods  demand ; 

So  tender,  yet  such  a  mighty  band, 
Stronger  than  chains  our  hearts  entwine. 


SONGS  OF   THE  DESERT.  105 


For  two  long  years,  yes,  almost  three, 
After  you  wandered  from  that  spot, 

Only  in  mem'ry  I  lived  with  thee, 

And  in  my  dreams  your  face  could  see; 

But  these  old,  old  words  came  back  to  me : 
Our  love  is  too  pure  to  come  to  naught. 

How  strange  it  seems  to  me  and  mine 

To  meet  again  far  from  that  spot  ; 
To  feel  our  loving  arms  entwine, 
To  kiss  those  lips  upturned  to  mine, 
To  see  those  eyes  so  loving  shine, 

With  a  love  too  pure  to  come  to  naught. 


POOR  FARMER  BOY. 


What  makes  the  sky  so  blue, 

Oh,  farmer  boy? 
Why  sing  the  birds  for  you, 

Poor,  farmer  boy  ? 
Why  are  the  fields  so  green  ? 
Fairer  than  ever  seen  ; 
There  is  a  cause,  I  ween, 

Oh,  farmer  boy. 

All  your  clothes  are  so  coarse, 

Oh,  farmer  boy ; 
And  shoes  even  worse, 

Poor  farmer  boy  ; 


io6  SONGS  OF   THE  DESERT. 


Coarse  is  the  food  you  eat, 
Tho'  it  may  taste  so  sweet, 
Back  in  your  lone  retreat. 
Poor  farmer  boy. 

Go  whistling  to  your  plow, 

Oh,  fanner  boy  ; 
I  know  your  secret  now, 

Poor  farmer  boy  : 
All  you  love  are  near  to  3'ou, 
Friends,  and  all  dear  to  you; 
There  comes  no  fear  to  you, 

Oh,  farmer  boy. 

Over  the  fields,  I  know, 

Oh,  farmer  boy, 
Tripping  gaily  to  and  fro, 

Poor  farmer  boy ; 
There  is  a  maiden  fair, 
With  country  beaut}'  rare — 
Your  heart  is  always  there, 

Poor  farmer  boy. 

What  care  you  for  the  strife, 

Oh,  farmer  boy  ; 
Or  for  another  life, 

Poor  farmer  boy : 
Home  is  the  world  to  you, 
Where  all  the  friends  are  true, 
Sweet' ning  your  work  for  you, 

Oh,  farmer  bo}'. 


SO.V<;S  OF    THE  DESERT.  107 


Build  castles  in  the  air, 

Oh,  farmer  boy, 
And  put  your  sweetheart  there, 

Poor  farmer  boy ; 
Long  not  for  other  joys, 
Like  the  proud  city  boys, 
Who  fill  their  life  with  toys, 

Poor  farmer  boy. 

Here  is  where  great  men  grow\ 

Oh,  farmer  bov, 
Some  time  you,  too,  may  go, 

Poor  farmer  boy ; 
Far  above  the  city  man, 
Who  lives  to  scheme  and  plan, 
But  seldom  leads  the  van, 

Poor  farmer  boy. 

Go  whistling  to  your  plow, 

Oh,  farmer  boy ; 
I  know  your  secret  now, 

Poor  farmer  boy: 
You  love  the  sky  so  blue, 
And  all  the  green  fields,  too, 
And  some  one  who  loves  you, 

Oh,  farmer  boy. 


io8  SOA'GS  OF    THE  DESERT. 


WHEN  DADDY  SAID  THE 
BLESSING. 


I  am  sitting  by  the  window 

In  my  far-off  western  home, 
But  my  mind  goes  off  a  dreaming, 

And  refuses  back  to  come; 
For  I  love  to  dwell  on  events 

That  occurred  so  long  ago, 
When  we  were  all  boys  together, 

And  were  bent  on  mischief  so: 
The  faces  we  made  at  table, 

When  our  mother  felt  so  shocked, 
While  our  daddy  said  the  blessing 

With  his  eyes  half  cocked. 

We  boys  were  never  so  pious 

That  we  could  sit  still,  and  wait 
Until  the  blessing  was  finished, 

\Vith  our  eyes  upon  the  plate; 
But  we'd  pinch  each  other  slyly, 

Or  pull  at  the  old  dog's  tail, 
And  make  faces  at  the  baby, 

Who  would  then  set  up  a  wail; 
But  at  times  we  felt  dad's  knuckles 

Just  where  our  bangs  were  docked, 
For  he  sometimes  said  the  blessing 

With  his  eyes  half  cocked. 


SO.VGS  OF   THE  DESERT.  109 


But  mother  seemed  to  love  us,  so 

She  kept  our  secrets  well, 
And  all  our  deeds  must  be  quite  mean 

To  make  her  up  and  tell; 
And  we  had  lots  of  fun  always 

When  our  daddy's  eyes  were  shut, 
And  when  his  dear  old  back  was  turned 

We  dropped  in  the  noisy  rut; 
And,  even  at  the  table,  we 

All  decent  manners  shocked, 
While  our  daddy  said  the  blessing 

With  his  eyes  half  cocked. 

Oh,  that  dear  old,  kind  old  daddy  ! 

And  that  sweet  old  mother  dear ! 
How  often  I  have  wished  of  late 

I  could  have  them  with  me  here; 
But  life  is,  oh,  so  very  short ! 

And  our  joys  so  weak  and  frail, 
That  even  when  we  laugh  too  loud, 

We  wind  up  with  a  wail; 
And  old  grim  Fate  seems  to  watch  us 

With  his  hands  before  him  locked, 
Like  when  daddy  said  the  blessings 

With  his  eyes  half  cocked. 


SO.\GS  OF    THE   DESERT. 


DREAMLAND  FACES. 


"Sweet  dreamland  faces,  dancing  to  and  fro, 
Bring  back  to  mem'ry  days  of  long  ago." 
So  sang  the  stranger,  gazing  in  the  stream, 
Seeing  lov'd  faces  pictured  in  his  dream: 
Down  where  the  waters  turn  to  deepest  blue, 
Where  cluster  faces  who  once  lov'd  him  true. 
But  these  dear  faces  quickly  disappear, 
For  on  the  water  drops  a  bitter  tear. 

Sweet  dreamland  faces,  come  to  me  again  ! 
Tho'  you  give  heart-ache  and  such  homesick  pain , 
No  more  my  teardrops  shall  obscure  its  view 
While  looking  tenderly  on  faces  true. 
Down  in  the  bosom  of  the  flowing  stream, 
Come  back  the  faces  of  mem'ry's  dream — 
Home  of  my  childhood  pictured  in  the  deep, 
Even  the  bed-room  where  I  used  to  sleep. 

There  stands  my  father  with  his  aged  form, 
His  long  hair  frosted  in  life's  chilly  storm; 
And  my  old  mother  standing  by  his  side, 
Seems  to  look  on  me  with  the  same  old  pride. 
See  her  smile  gently,  while  her  tender  eyes 
Light  up  so  loving  with  glad  surprise. 
Dear  God  in  heaven,  Father  of  the  stream  ! 
Will  the  resurrection  be  like  this  dream  ? 


SO.YGS  Of   THE  DESEKT. 


There  stand  my  brothers  looking  in  my  face, 
Each  line  familiar,  easily  to  trace ! 
Some  of  them  living,  some  of  them  asleep, 
But  all  seem  wakened,  pictured  in  the  deep: 
They  all  seem  life-like  in  their  worldly  homes, 
For  here  in  dreamland  grim  death  never  comes. 
But  my  heart  is  aching  with  silent  pain, 
Dear  God  in  heaven  !  shall  we  meet  again  ? 

Sweet  dreamland  faces,  speak,  oh,  speak  to  me ! 

Will  you  all  meet  me  in  eternity? 

Are  thoughts  of  heaven  only  like  a  dream — 

Only  a  picture  shadowed  on  life's  stream  ! 

Will  death  make  ripples,  blotting  out  the  view — 

Hiding  forever  these  pictures  of  you  ? 

Dear  God  in  heaven,  let,  oh  let  me  know, 

When  ends  this  dreamland,  whither  shall  I  go? 


Ah,  there  is  but  one  love  true — 
Love  so  deep  that  it  is  blind, 

Giving  the  whole  world  up  for  you 
And  leaving  home  and  friends  behind. 


THE  BULLY. 

The  man  who  wants  to  slap  your  face 
For  disputing  things  not  true, 

Would  shoot  you  down  within  your  place, 
If  caught  burglarizing  you. 


SONGS  Of    THE  DESERT. 


THE  CRIES  GO  UP  TO  HEAVEN. 


Last  night  I  dreamed  that  I  sat  up  in  heaven, 
And  very  close  to  the  celestial  throne, 

Where  I  could  hear,  every  day  of  the  seven, 
The  prayer  of  the  world  and  its  bitter  moan, 
Crying  for  mercy  in  beseeching  tone. 

"Lord,  thou  hast  forsaken  us  !  "  cried  the  starving  ; 
"Our  strong  brothers  rob  us  of  all  we  get ; 

We  do  all  the  digging,  delving  and  carving, 
Exposed  to  the  snow,  the  frost  and  the  wet, 
And  still  we  have  never  seen  justice  yet. 

"O,  Lord,  I  am  weary !  Lord,  I  am  dying ! 
Oh,  so  hungry  and  cold  !  and  do  you  care  ? 

Have  you  turned  a  deaf  ear  unto  our  crying, 
And  forsaken  the  poor  everywhere — 
Paying  no  heed  to  their  bitter  prayer? 

"Lord,  did  you  make  us  in  days  of  creation 
To  be  poor  slaves — to  be  never  satisfied, 

To  bear  the  heavy  burdens  of  this  nation, 
While  the  proud  aristocrats  us  deride? 
Did  you  intend  Justice  in  wealth's  divide?" 

And  I  dreamed  I  looked  on  the  struggling  masses, 
As  they  writhed  and  twisted  in  their  greed  for  gold 

And  I  saw  the  pride  of  the  haughty  classes, 

While  the  hungry  masses  were  bought  and  sold, 
And  the  orphan  suffered  hunger  and  cold. 


SOJVGS  OF   THE   DESERT.  113 


And  I  noticed  that,  one  day  out  of  seven, 

They  went  to  their  churches  to  offer  up  prayer ; 

Expecting  that  words  would  take  them  to  heaven, 
From  the  hell  of  man's  own  creation  here — 
From  the  hunger  and  pain  felt  ev'ry where. 

And  the  angels  whispered  to  one  another : 
"How  the  poor  suffer  under  greed's  rod  ! 

For  the  rich  won't  own  the  poor  man  his  brother. 
How  hardly  shall  they  see  the  Kingdom  of  God 
As  Jesus  had  said  when  this  earth  he  trod." 


READY  TO  GO. 


I  useter  look  on  death  an'  dyin' 

As  a  dretful,  orful  thing, 
An'  I  couldn't  keep  from  cryin', 

An'  my  hands  I  useter  wring, 
When  grim  Death  'u'd  come  an'  cany 

Dear  old  frien's  right  from  my  side, 
An'  I'd  feel  so  orful  sorry 

While  behint  the  hearse  I'd  ride. 

But  so  many  hev  gone  over 
To  that  place  they  talk  about 

In  the  meetin',  an'  where  clover 

Grows  knee-high,  an'  there,  no  doubt, 


U4  SOXGS  OF    THE   DESERT. 


They  are  happy  doin'  nuthin' 
But  a  playin'  harps  ov  gold, 

An'  their  angel  stomachs  stuffin' 
Jist  as  full  as  they  kin  hold. 

An'  this  world  is  not  so  jolly 

As  it  was  when  I  was  young, 
An'  at  times  a  melancholy 

Over  my  poor  heart  is  sprung; 
An'  at  ev'nin',  settin'  smokin', 

Thinkin'  ov  these  frien's  .so  true, 
Sumthin'  in  my  breast  comes  chokin', 

An'  I  wanter  be  dead,  too. 

Even  if  death  is  but  sleepin' — 

That  beats  this  world,  at  its  best, 
For  there' d  be  no  hunger  creepin' — 

Jist  a  lazyin'  at  rest. 
While  I'm  settin'  smokin',  weary, 

Lis'nin'  to  the  wind's  soft  "woo-oo  !' 
This  here  world  seems  growin'  dreary, 

An'  I  wanter  be  dead,  too. 

If  these  frien's  that  has  gone  over 

To  this  world  ov  joy  an'  peace, 
Are  a  wallowin'  in  clover 

Where  the  noon-spells  never  cease; 
An'  such  sights  as  they  are  seein'  ! 

An'  there's  nuthin'  else  ter  do 
But  jist  everlastin'  bein' 

Jolly,  an'  a  singin',  too. 


SONGS  Of   THE  DESERT.  115 


What's  the  use  ov  me  a  missin' 

All  the  good  times  over  there  ? 
Where  the  summer  winds  is  kissin' 

An'  a  blowin'  through  your  hair. 
All  ni}-  best  Men's  hev  departed, 

An'  there's  nuthin'  else  ter  do 
But  ter  die,  an'  then  be  carted 

Over  to  the  boneyard,  too. 


HE  SHOCKED  THE  WORLD. 


Onc't  there  was  a  little  boy  who  wanted  to  be  seen  ; 

He  was  very  tall  and  slender,  and  freckle-faced,  and  lean. 

He  longed  to  become  famous,  and  win  praise  and  renown, 

And  be  the  one  admired  boy  of  all  the  boys  in  town. 

He  longed  to  be  a  hero,  and  have  people  at  his  feet, 

To  select  the  best  of  all  things,  and  give  him  just  the  sweet. 

When  he  was  told  to  do  the  chores,  he'd  only  laugh  and 

mock , 

And  give  his  folks  and  relatives  the  meanest  kind  of  shock. 
But  he  had  great  ambitions  to  become,  oh,  very  rich, 
To  be  president,  or  gov'nor,  he  didn't  care  just  which  ; 
But  he  wanted  things  to  come  to  him  of  their  own  accord, 
And  all  he'd  hafter  do  would  be  to  just  set  down  and  board. 
He  only  wish't  to  set  all  day  in  the  shade  and  dream, 
And  have  the  good  things  come  to  him,  like  bubbles  on  a 

stream ; 


n6  SO.VGS   Of    THE   DESERT. 


But  if  you'd  speak  of  study,  he'd  only  laugh  and  mock, 
And  say,  if  he  could  not  win  fame,  he'd  give  the  world  a 

shock. 

Long  before  he  was  a  man,  all  his  people  knew 
There  was  no  kind  of  honest  work  this  boy  would  do ; 
So  they  prayed  for  him  in  meetin',  when  he  was  there, 
But  he'd  set  and  make  faces  durin'  the  hull  pray'r. 
But  he  thought,  somehow,  that  fortune  was  bound  to  come, 
Just  because  he  wish't  it,  and  knew  more  than  some 
People  gave  him  credit  for,  and  some  day,  by  jocks, 
He'd  give  the  world   and    neighbors  some    gee-menshly 

shocks. 

I  know  lots  of  boys  like  him,  dear  reader,  don't  you? 
So   in   love   with    themselves  that  there's     nothin'   they 

will  do  ; 

But  will  set  and  build  castles  all  the  day  long, 
And  picture  themselves  like  the  man  in  the  song ; 
The  owner  of  horses,  fine  houses  and  land, 
And  just  lay  on  the  divan,  and  never  turn  their  hand 
To  do  toilin',  or  s'pinnin',  or  darnin'  of  socks, 
But  just  have  successes  that'll  give  the  world  shocks. 
Well,  this  boy  that  I  mentioned,  he  grew  to  manhood, 
And  never  was  known  to  do  one  stroke  of  good  ; 
But  kept  longin'  for  glory,  for  fame  and  renown, 
And  to  be  the  biggest  mogul  in  the  hull  town  ; 
So  he  soon  took  to  stealin',  then  robbin'  a  store — 
Was  'rested  for  murder,  and  for  sheddin'  of  gore. 
And,  even  on  the  gallows,  he  set  there  and  mocked  ; 
But  his  neck  was  soon  broken — the  world  it  was  shocked. 


SO^VGS  Of   THE  DESERT.  117 


LIFE  IS  ALL  GUESS-WORK. 


This  life  is  a  thing  uncertain, 

Begins  and  ends  like  a  dream; 
It  starts  from  behind  a  curtain, 

Then  flows  to  an  unknown  stream. 
The  future  is  merely  guessing, 

The  past  a  struggle  severe; 
We  call  ev'rything  a  blessing 

That  keeps  us  existing  here. 

In  childhood  we  dream  of  conquest, 

Of  things  we'll  do  when  full  grown; 
Our  friends  will  be  ev'ryone  blest 

With  riches  that's  all  our  own. 
We'll  marry  the  fairest  creature, 

Who  will  own  half  of  this  sphere; 
Her  other  redeeming  feature 

Will  be,  calling  us  her  ' '  dear. ' ' 

We  make  ourself  a  liar, 

A  boaster,  and  thing  so  vain ; 
In  secret  we  do  aspire 

To  see  all  our  rivals  slain, 
We  picture  ourself  in  battle, 

With  blood  dripping  from  our  sword- 
Voice  sounding  above  the  rattle, 

Defiance  in  ev'ry  word. 


u8  SONGS  OF   THE   DESERT. 


But  soon  all  these  castles  vanish — 

We  wed  a  maid  with  cold  feet; 
All  sleep  from  our  eyes  she'll  banish, 

And  make  our  mis'ry  complete. 
She'll  double  up  on  the  pillow 

Like  an  Irish  peddler's  pack, 
And,  worse  than  a  North  sea  billow, 

Are  her  cold  feet  to  our  back. 

And  then  will^the  rent  collector, 

And  the  money-lending  shark, 
And  the  social-line  inspector 

Be  making  this  old  world  dark. 
Our  future  is  now  uncertain, 

We  know  not  the  date  or  da}-, 
When  Death  will  hoist  the  curtain, 

And  move  us  out  of  the  way. 

It 's  all  sheer  nonesense  for  preachers 

Marking  out  a  path  in  life, 
For  even  the  best  of  teachers 

Are  meeting  with  unseen  strife  : 
It  is  all  groping  and  guessing, 

From  the  hour  we  are  born, 
And  we  only  get  the  blessing 

Like  the  blind  pig  got  the  corn. 


SONGS  OF   THE  DESERT.  119 


LITTLE  NELL. 


Of  my  earl}-  childhood  dreaming, 
Sitting  on  the  vine-clad  stoop, 
Where  the  moonlight  comes  in  streaming, 
And  the  climbing  roses  droop; 
Sitting  musing, 
Scenes  confusing 
Come  back,  niem'ry  disabusing; 
And  dear  childhood  faces  beaming 

Through  the  shadows  on  the  stoop, 
Where  the  climbing  roses,  seeming 
Like  the  heads  of  children,  droop. 

Away  back  in  the  shadows  mist}' 
Hanging  o'er  the  days  of  yore, 
I  see  myself  and  Nellie  Listlie 
Sliding  down  the  cellar  door. 
Ma's  prediction 
Of  the  friction, 

Beyond  doubt  or  contradiction — 
Said  she,  as  she  stooped  and  kissed  me: 

"You  must  not  slide  any  more; 
For  no  cloth  can  ever  resist  the 
Friction  of  the  cellar  door. ' ' 

But  we  kept  on  gently  sliding, 
For  such  joys  the  soul  enchants. 

Says  I,  "Nell,"  as  we  went  gliding, 

"  You  can't  strike  matches  on  your  pants! ' ' 


SONGS   OF    THE    DESERT. 


Says  she,  grinning, 
Sweetly  winning, 
"I  tould  do  it  at  bedinnin', 
But  dis  slidin',  an'  dis  glidin' 

Wif  you  on  dis  door  each  day, 
(Dere's  no  use  de  setret  hidin'), 
I  haint  no  more  built  dat  way." 

Drooping  head  and  sweetly  blushing 

As  we  climbed  the  door  so  steep, 
And  we  heard  my  mother  hushing 
Little  brother  back  to  sleep; 
Says  Nell,  turning, 
With  face  burning, 

And  with  one  hand  me  she's  spurning: 
"Do  away,  an'  don't  you  tease  me, 

Tause  you  don't  know  what  I  see. 
Did  you  spile  your  pants  ter  please  me  ? 
You're  edzactly  built  like  me!  " 

Little  Nellie!  long  years  sleeping 

In  the  church-yard  over  there; 
And  the  years  so  surely  creeping, 
Scatter  silver  in  my  hair. 

Soon  I'll  meet  her, 
And  will  greet  her, 
In  a  world  more  fair  and  sweeter, 
And  I  hope  to  find  her  sliding 

Down  the  door  eternity; 
Whisp'ring  to  the  Lord,  confiding: 
"He's  edzactly  built  like  me." 


SO.\GS  OF    THE  DESERT. 


IONE. 


There's  a  lone  grave  far  out  on  the  silent  prairie, 

Where  only  the  sighing  winds  and  the  coyote's  howl  is 

heard. 
Here  sleeps  lone,  once  as  beautiful  as  a  fairy, 

And  whose  song  was  once  sweeter  than  the  song  of  a 
bird. 

The  great  sand  storms  in  the  summer  soriietimes  sweep 
over 

The  deep-sunken  grave  where  the  Indian  maiden  sleeps, 
And  the  snow  in  winter  falls  deep  enough  to  cover 

The  devil-tongue  cactus,  where  the  primrose  creeps. 

There's  a  silence  in  the  air  that  makes  one  feel  dreary, 
Broken  only  now  and  then  by  the  crow  overhead; 

And  while  you  stand  alone,  your  mind  debates  the  query, 
If  such  solitude  is  not  even  felt  by  the  dead. 

lone  was  but  a  dark -eyed,  dusky  half-breed  maiden, 
Her  father  a  white  trader,  and  her  mother  a  Ute. 

She  fell  in  love  with  a  hunter,  dashing  Dick  Hayden, 
Who  returned  her  true  affections,  and  soon  won  his  suit. 

But  there  was  an  Indian  lover  for  the  maiden, 

The  wily  hunter  and  trailer,  the  big,  brave  Ahmeek; 

And  he  had  sworn  to  kill  the  bold  hunter,  Dick  Hayden, 
And  for  a  chance  to  slav  him  the  Indian  did  seek. 


SO.VGS  OF   THE   DESERT. 


So,  lone  and  her  lover,  at  the  midnight  hour, 
Stole  silently  away  from  her  grandfather's  tepee; 

And  each  took  a  horse,  saying  it  was  Tone's  dower, 

And  rode  away  in  the  darkness,  with  hearts  light  and 
free. 

Over  mountains,  down  canons  they  rode,  silence  keeping; 

Down  deep  gulches,  across  arroyos,  onward  the}-  ride, 
While  the  old  grandfather  in  his  tepee  is  sleeping, 

Never  dreaming  that  the  hunter  has  stolen  his  bride. 

But  the  Indian,  Ahmeek,  soon  discovers 

That  the  maiden  he  loved  with  the  white  hunter  has  fled; 
He  is  soon  mounted  and  in  pursuit  of  the  lovers, 

And  each  leap  of  the  horse  nods  the  gay  plumes  on  his 
head. 

Away  on  the  lonely  prairie,  two  days  after, 

He  overtakes  the  truants,  and  his  keen  blade  leaps  out; 
Goaded  on  to  madness  by  hearing  their  gay  laughter, 

He  holds  aloft  his  knife  and  gives  an  exultant  shout. 

They  meet,  the  rivals  and  the  maiden;  no  word  is  spoken; 

But  the  lovers  spur  their  horses  and  at  each  other  dart; 
The  maiden  rides  between  them,  and  both  blows  are  broken, 

With  the  blades,  aimed  at  each  other,  buried  in  her  heart. 

They  pause,  and,  with  great  horror,  the}'  glance  at  each 

other. 

"The  great  spirit  has  decided,"  the  Indian  said. 
"We  will  bury  our  love  in  sorrow,  now,  1113-  brother, 
And  with  our  own  wicked  hands  dig  a  grave  for  our 
dead. ' ' 


SONGS  Of    THE   DESERT.  123 


Two  days  they  sat  there  fasting;  they  are  foes  no  longer; 

Now  they  both  love  the  maiden  in  the  spirit  land; 
They  must  be  good  friends  now,  for  their  hatred  would 
wrong  her; 

And  over  Tone's  grave  they  grasp  each  other's  hand. 

Then  they  both  ride  away,  across  the  dreary  prairie, 
The  hunter  to  the  east,  the  Indian  to  the  west, 

And  left  lone  sleeping — lone,  the  dusk}-  fairy — 
lone,  the  half-breed  maiden,  now  forever  at  rest. 


RURAL  MELODIES.. 


There  is  music  in  the  meadows, 

There  is  music  in  the  brush, 
But  exceptin'  when  it  thunders, 

When  there  seems  to  be  a  hush. 
Yes,  but  in  the  morning  early 

When  the  sun  begins  to  rise, 
There's  a  thousand  trills  of  music 

Goes  ascending  to  the  skies: 
When  the  pigs  cry  for  their  breakfast 

In  their  little  round  log  pen, 
There's  the  "Kuck,  kuck,  kuck,  chee-kaw-kuck!' 

Of  the  early  lay  in'  hen. 


124  XOXG'S  OF    THE   DESERT. 


There's  the  robin  on  the  pear  tree 

Singin'  "Purt,  purt,  purt,  purt,  purt!" 
And  the  guinea  in  the  meadow 

Yellin'  jist  as  tho'  'twas  hurt; 
And  the  pee- wee  on  the  stable 

Calls  his  wife,  "My  dear  Phoebe," 
And  the  chick-a-dee  is  there,  top, 

Singin'  "Chick-a-dee,  dee  dee!  " 
And  the  swallows  skim  the  heavens, 

And  don't  seem  to  care  a  darn 
For  the  "Kuck,  kuck,  kuck,  chee-kaw-kuck! 

Of  the  rooster  in  the  barn. 

And  the  farmer  boy  goes  whistlin' 

On  his  way  to  start  the  plow, 
And  there's  no  fog  horn  to  equal 

The  loud  bellow  of  the  cow; 
And  the  old  black  crow  and  raven 

That  go  soarin'  over  head 
Send  us  down  a  caw  so  dismal, 

While  they  look  for  somethin'  dead; 
And  there's  the  brown  thrush,  and  jay  bird, 

And  the  little  Jennie  wren, 
And  the  "Kuck,  kuck,  kuck,  chee-kaw-kuck!' 

Of  the  cross  old  hatchin'  hen. 

Oh,  there's  music  in  the  country, 

When  the  city's  got  the  blues, 
And  the  fields  all  over  flowers 

In  a  thousand  brilliant  hues; 
And  the  happy  songs  of  nature 

Can  be  heard  on  ev'r}-  hill, 


SONGS  OF   THE  DESERT.  125 


Minglin'  with  the  gurglin'  music 

Of  the  little  ripplin'  rill; 
And  the  housewife  saves  the  onions 

With  some  cuss  words  and  with  sticks, 
Midst  the  "Kuck,  kuck,  kuck,  chee-kaw-kuck! " 

Of  the  old  hen  with  her  chicks. 


EBB  AND  FLOW. 


Ebb  and  flow,  come  and  go. 

Just  like  the  tide  is  our  life  below  : 

High-tide  comes  in,  child  life  begins, 

Roll  on  the  shore  in  a  frolicsome  din. 

Flow  back  tide,  the  old  man  died, 

Swept  to  the  ocean  so  deep  and  wide  : 

Come  once  more,  leave  a  child  at  our  door, 

Take  a  grandfather  with  you  when  you  leave  the  shore. 

The  waves  come  in,  and  the  waves  go  back,  ^ 

And  the  new  come  in  on  the  old  wave's  track  ; 

Come  and  go,  ebb  and  flow, 

Youth  comes  in  and  age  must  go. 

High  on  the  wave  child  life  does  flow, 

While  age  goes  out  in  the  under-tow. 

Ships  sail  o'er  midst  the  ocean's  roar, 
Just  like  our  hopes  sail  evermore. 
Hopes  of  to-day  sail  down  the  bay, 
Out  on  the  ocean  and  fade  away  ; 


126  SOJVGS  OF    THE  DESERT. 


Toss'd  on  the  deep  where  cruel  rocks  sleep, 
Dashed  to  pieces — there's  no  time  to  weep. 
Hopes  good  and  stout,  like  ships,  go  out 
Freighted  with  pleasure,  sailing  about  ; 
Some  survive  and  come  back  again, 
Some  are  lost  on  the  raging  main. 
Some  are  wrecked  within  sight  of  land, 
Like  hopes  that  perish  within  our  hand  : 
Come  and  go,  ebb  and  flow, 
We  all  go  out  in  the  under-tow. 

Birds  fly  high  in  the  summer  sky, 

Like  our  ambition  when  first  we  try  ; 

But,  in  the  storm,  they  take  alarm, 

And  fly  to  the  shore  to  escape  from  harm  ; 

But  next  day,  when  storms  clear  away, 

Birds  and  ambition  fly  over  the  bay  : 

Off  and  away  in  youth's  fair  day, 

Never  once  resting — no  delay  : 

On  land  and  in  sky,  below  and  on  high, 

Sailing  forever  until  we  die  : 

Come  and  go,  ebb  and  flow, 

Back  and  forth  we  ever  go  : 

What  is  beyond  we  do  not  know, 

But  we  all  go  out  in  the  under-tow. 


SO.VGS  OF    THE  DESERT.  127 


AFTER  MANY  YEARS. 


After  years  of  journey, 

After  many  years, 
I  am  back  at  home  again 

Shedding  glad,  glad  tears; 
Friends  are  here  to  meet  me, 
Neighbors  here  to  greet  me, 
Yet  these  seem  sad,  sad  dreams, 

After  many  years. 

When  I  went  away,  some  friends 

Were  just  in  their  prime, 
Now  they  are  old  and  wrinkled, 

Showing  tracks  of  time; 
And  here  I  meet  again, 
Down  in  the  shady  lane, 
Some  dear  one  I  lov'd  when  young — 

Ah,  is  love  a  crime? 

Shame-faced  we  meet  again 

And  hold  out  our  hands; 
Often  I  had  thought  of  her 

While  in  other  lands; 
Holding  her  hand  so  tight, 

On  this  calm  summer  night, 
Standing  so  meek — neither  can  speak, 

Make  no  demands. 


128  SO.VGS  OF    THE  'DESERT. 


She  is  another's  wife, 

And  never  again 
Will  she  be  my  own  sweetheart, 

Why  do  I  remain  ? 
One  look  into  her  eyes, 
Find  only  there  surprise — 
So  we  part.     At  my  heart 

A  queer,  sad  pain. 

Passing  on  down  the  lane 

One  last  look  I  take, 
Some  impulse  had  caused  her,  too, 

The  same  move  to  make; 
Tho'  I  am  married,  too, 
And  love  my  wife  so  true, 
In  some  way  all  that  day 

My  heart  did  ache. 


FROST  BITES. 


Oh,  the  leaves  are  turning  yellow 

And  are  looking  pale  and  sere, 
And  remind  one  of  the  gray  hairs 

On  the  head  of  the  old  year  ; 
The}-  are  trembling  in  the  breezes, 

And  so  hopelessly  they  fall 
To  old  mother  earth's  cold  bosom- 

The  last  resting  place  for  all. 


.V().V(/.V  OF    THE   DESERT.  129 


One  by  one  the  leaves  are  dropping, 

Like  the  mother's  silent  tears 
On  the  grave  of  some  beloved 

Of  the  long-past,  happy  years  ; 
They  are  falling,  falling,  falling, 

Soon  the  trees  will  all  be  bare, 
And  their  arms,  so  long  and  naked, 

Stand  like  beggars  ev'rywhere. 

I  have  seen  the  western  farmer 

Stripped  as  bare,  or  even  worse, 
By  the  frosty  money-lender 

And  his  cruel  mortgage  curse  ; 
I  have  seen  bare  limbs  of  children 

In  poverty's  exposure, 
When  the  homestead  was  frost-bitten 

By  the  mortgage's  foreclosure. 

And  the  farmer  s  hard-earned  dollars, 

Like  the  sered  and  yellow  leaf, 
Keep  on  dropping,  dropping,  dropping, 

On  the  legal  mortgage  thief. 
There's  no  hope  for  the  poor  farmer ; 

There  are  no  warm  winds  to  bring 
Back  a  bran-new  suit  of  clothing, 

Like  the  trees  get  in  the  spring. 

Oh,  Jehovah's  frosts  are  cruel, 
And  no  mercy  do  they  show  ; 

They  delight  to  kill  and  slaughter, 
Spreading  death  where  e'er  they  go ; 


130  SO.VGS  OF    THE.    DESERT. 


But  the  yellow  leaves  now  falling 

Are  not  victims  of  a  curse, 
Like  the  blood-stained,  hard-earned  dollars 

Squeezed  from  out  the  fanner's  purse. 


QUOTIN'  SKRIPTOOR. 


"Blessed  are  the  poor  in  spirit" — read  the  preacher  from 

the  book, 
And  the  poor  old  mortgaged  farmer  raised  up  with  a  startled 

look. 

"That  means  you  and  me,  Samantha;  fur  our  speerits's 

mighty  low: 
Since  we  signed  that  dad-bin  mortgage  we  hain't  got  half 

a  show." 

"  For  theirs  is  the  kingdom  of  heav'n  " — read  the  preacher 
then  again. 

"That's  all  right  fur  us,  Samantha,  that's  the  promise, 

plump  and  plain; 
But  our  children,  dog-gone-nation  !  what  do  they  get  in 

the  deal  ? 
If  there's  not  some  explanation,  don't  you  think  they  otter 

squeal  ? 


SONY'S  OF    THE  DESERT.  131 


•  •  The  hairs  of  your  head  are  numbered ' ' — read  the  preacher 

then  aloud, 
And  again  the  mortgaged  farmer's  face  appeared  above  the 

crowd : 

"Silas  Cruncher,  don't  3^0'  hear  him — hear  what  the  good 

book  has  said  ? 
A 'most  anny  one  could  count  them  scatterin'  hairs  upon 

yo'r  head. 
But  what  I  'd  like  ter  know  partic'lar,  when  old  Cruncher's 

debt  falls  due, 
When  he  goes  up  with  low  speerits,  will  St.  Peter  pass  him 

through  ? 
If  he  then   presents  the  number  of  the  hairs  to  heaven 

due, 
And  demands  a  full  collection,   what  will  we  poor  bald 

heads  do? 

"By  its  fruit  the  tree  is  known  " — read  the  preacher  louder 
still  , 

But  the  mortgaged  fanner  said,    "You  have  gotter  wait 

until 
The  fruit  is  ripe  and  full  matoord,  and  jist  redd3-  fur  to 

fall, 
Before  you  judge  it   right  and   square,   and  give  justice 

plump  ter  all. 

But  that  early  apple  tree  in  the  corner  of  my  lot, 
I've  been  thinkin'  all  along  is  the  best  tree  I  have  got; 
But  the  duced  gaul-darn  boys,  long  before  the  fruit  is  ripe, 
Come  at  night  when  I'm  in  bed  and  ev'ry  dad-bim  apple 

swipe. 


SOJVGS   Of   THE  DESERT. 


"  The  wind  bloweth  where  it  listeth  " — read  the  preacher 

louder  yet, 
And  up  jumped  the  mortgaged  farmer:  "That's  the  gospel 

truth,  you  bet ! 
Sometimes  it  blows  through  my  whiskers  in  the  gayest, 

wildest  glee ! 
And  right  through  my  week-day  trousers  where  the  patches 

otter  be. 
Wind  has  got  more  dad-bim  freedom  than  the  people  ever 

wish , 
For  it  blows  through  Jones'  barn  yard,  then  right  inter  my 

soup  dish." 

Then  the  preacher  closed  the  Bible, — he  was   mad  for  a 

divine, — 
Quoting  once  more  in  conclusion,    "Cast  not  pearls  before 

the  swine  !" 


THE  CHIEF  END  OF    MAN. 


There's  only  one  life  to  endure  of, 
And  only  one  death  that  we're  sure  of, 
But  we  try  to  obtain  the  whole  earth  for  gain, 
And  shove  God's  miserable  poor  off. 


Of    THE   DESERT.  133 


THE  SILENT  SOMEWHERE. 


See  the  man  pose  as  a  villain, 

So  drunken,  brutal,  coarse  and  mean  ; 
He  has  murdered  a  civilian, 

Stained  with  blood  the  grass  so  green. 
See  him  wave  his  knife  so  gory, 

While  the  moon  shines  bright  above  him  : 
Ah,  if  we  only  knew  his  story, 

Somewhere,  sometime,  some  one  loved  him. 

He  was  once  a  smiling  baby, 

Pressed  against  a  mother's  breast, 
And  that  mother  somewhere,  maybe, 

In  her  heart  loves  him  still  best. 
See,  he  now  beholds  his  victim  ; 

No  thought  of  remorse  can  move  him, 
Will  that  mother's  heart  convict  him  ? 

Somewhere,  sometime  then  un-love  him  ? 

And  that  woman,  low  and  fallen. 

Reeling  drunken  through  the  street, 
Somewhere  some  poor  heart  is  calling 

God  to  stop  her  wandering  feet. 
Whisky  will  her  conscience  smother, 

Drown  the  thoughts  that  come  to  move  her, 
But  she  knows  there  is  a  mother 

Somewhere  who  will  always  love  her. 


134  SONGS  OF   THE   DESERT. 


Even  in  her  sin  and  folly, 

When  her  thoughts  go  back  to  home, 
In  her  sober  melancholy, 

She  knows  that  she  still  may  come 
Back  to  home,  and  back  to  mother, 

With  the  dear  old  roof  above  her. 
Oh,  this  thought  she  cannot  smother, 

Somehow  she  will  always  love  her. 

After  this  frail  life  has  hurried 

Past  us,  like  a  fleeting  breath, 
And  we  all  are  dead  and  buried 

In  the  silent  sleep  of  death, 
Will  these  mothers  in  the  somewhere, 

Un-like  earthly  mothers  prove? 
Will  they,  somehow,  sometime  find  there 

They  have  lost  their  mother-love? 

Oh,  this  something,  sometime,  somehow, 

Something  we  are  hoping  for  ! 
Sometime  something  cannot  come  now 

On  this  side  death's  open  door. 
Somehow  we  hope  to  be  found  there 

In  this  somewhere  up  above  ; 
Somehow-  joys  will  then  abound  there, 

Tho'  in  hell  are  some  we  love. 


SOA'GS  OF   THE  DESERT.  135 


SHE  NEVER  KNEW. 


When  I  close  my  eyes  in  dreaming 

Of  the  dreary  long  ago, 
There  's  a  little  face  conies  beaming, 

Fills  my  heart  with  warmest  glow; 
For  I  knew  her  when  a  maiden, 

Saw  her  growing  day  by  day, 
When  her  soul  with  joj-  was  laden, 

And  she  stole  my  heart  away. 

In  my  dreams  and  castles  airy, 
And  all  hopes  I  held  in  view, 

She  was  my  sweet  little  fairy, 
But  she  never,  never  knew. 

Long  I  used  to  sit  and  wonder 

How  to  win  her  little  heart, 
Dream  all  night,  and  all  day  ponder, 

Until  love  became  a  smart: 
But  she  seemed  so  far  above  me, 

Fading  daily  from  my  view; 
Still  I  prayed  that  she  might  love  me, 

But  she  never,  never  knew. 

When  I  thought  she'd  gone  forever, 
Loved  some  one  of  wealth  and  fame, 

Still  'twas  useless  to  endeavor 
To  forget  her  face  and  name. 


136  SO.VGS  OF   THE  DESERT. 


Then  I  wrote  her  my  sad  letter, 
Told  her  how  I  loved  her  true, 

But  would  go  off  and  forget  her, 
Since  I'd  told  her  all  she  knew. 

Years  have  passed,  and  still  I'm  roaming, 

But  to-day  a  letter  came, 
Asking  when  to  her  I'm  coming, 

And  was  signed  by  her  dear  name. 
She  had  lately  found  my  letter, 

It  was  lost  all  these  years  through: 
I  was  trying  to  forget  her, 

And  she  never,  never  knew. 

And  she  told  me  in  her  letter 

How  her  hair  was  turning  gray, 
Biit  there  is  no  bar  or  fetter 

That  would  drive  my  love  away. 
And  she  told  me  how  she  ever 

Loved  me  with  a  love  so  true, 
And  we  should  not  grieve  forever 

Over  what  she  never  knew. 

Oh,  the  hearts  that  now  are  aching, 

Roaming  far  by  land  and  sea, 
Leaving  other  fond  hearts  breaking, 

All  because  they  could  not  see. 
And  when  old  age  comes  on  creeping, 

They  may  meet,  these  lovers  true, 
And  they  '11  cry,  midst  all  their  weeping: 

Oh,  I  never,  never  knew  ! 


SONGS  OF   THE  DESERT.  137 


CHANGES. 


The  flowers  are  blooming  as  sweetly 

As  they  did  in  the  long  ago, 
And  the  birds  are  feathered  as  neatly, 

The  cock  has  the  same  boastful  crow; 
But  the  songs  of  the  birds  seem  older, 

And  more  commonplace  to  me; 
The  winds  of  the  winter  seem  colder — 

Nothing  seems  like  it  used  to  be. 

When  the  world  was  stranger  and  newer, 

And  I  was  then  only  a  boy, 
When  sorrows  were  lighter  and  fewer, 

And  ev'rything  filled  me  with  joy, 
The  da}Ts  seemed  much  longer  and  merry, 

And  all  nature  seemed  filled  with  glee; 
Now  the  world  seems  changed  in  a  flurry, 

But  the  changes  are  all  in  me. 

The  boys  who  are  now  in  the  meadows, 

Who  are  playing  the  games  of  old, 
There's  none  of  them  heeding  the  shadows, 

There  's  none  of  them  heeding  the  cold; 
And  they  're  just  as  happy  as  we  were, 

And  the  days  are  as  long  and  free, 
And  I'd  give  all  the  world  to  be  there, 

Without  all  these  changes  in  me. 


138  SOATGS  OF   THE  DESERT. 


Life  seems  like  a  cord  unwinding 

From  a  turn-stile  fast  to  the  ground, 
And  each  year  new  scenes  we  are  finding, 

As  we  keep  on  walking  around; 
We  get  farther  out  in  the  shadows, 

With  our  life-chord  trailed  on  the  ground, 
Till  at  length  we  have  crossed  life's  meadows, 

And  the  strange  chord  is  all  unwound. 


WHAT  THE  SPIRITS  TOLD  ME. 


NOTE. — This  poem  was  written  in  the  old  home  in  Hardscrabble, 
ten  years  ago,  and  while  I  was  living  a  bachelor  life  among  the 
dear  old  hills  where  first  I  saw  the  greedy  world.  I  have  followed 
the  spirit's  advice. 


Last  night  sitting  weak  and  wear}-, 
In  my  home,  so  lone  and  drear}- — 

Where  the  voice  of  gentle  woman  never  falls  upon  my  ear. 
By  the  dim  light  on  the  table,   I  was  writing  a  strange 

fable, 

Hoping  thereby  to  be  able  to  make  life  less  cold  and  drear. 
Ah,  the  world  knows  not  the  struggles,  nor  the  sad  dis- 
couraged tear 

Dropping  on  the  hopes  I  bury 
Every  day  throughout  the  year. 


SOWGS  OF   THE  DESERT.  139 


All  my  loved  ones  death  has  taken, 
And  my  heart  by  grief  is  shaken, 
And  the  old  house  seems  as  lonely,  sad  and  gloomy  as  the 

tomb; 
And,   while  I  am  sitting   napping,    all   around  I  hear 

strange  tapping, 

And  some  unseen  power  rapping  all  around  the  dismal  room ; 
And  outside  I  hear  strange  noises, 
Mingling  with  the  midnight  gloom. 

"Gentle  spirit,  if  you  know  me, 
Rap  in  answer,  please,  and  show  me 
What  to  write  to  please  the  public;  for,  in  truth,  I  do  not 

know. 
Shall  I  write  of  wealth  and  treasure,  worldly  sports  and 

earthly  pleasure, 

Men  of  money  without  measure,  dressed  in  diamonds  for 
vain  show?" 

This  I  asked,  and  all  the  spirits 
With  loud  rapping  answered,  "No!" 

"Shall  I  write  of  war  and  plunder, 
Battles  fierce  and  cannon's  thunder, 
Where  the  nations  meet  in  battle,  and  the  blood  of  soldiers 

flow? 
Where  rulers  fight  to  gain  possession,  or  seek  revenge 

for  some  transgression, 

Or  to  crush  men  for  secession,  laying  forms  of  traitors  low  ?' ' 
This  I  asked  those  midnight  spirits 
And  again  they  answered,  "No!  " 


140  SONGS  OF   THE   DESERT. 


'  'Shall  I  write  of  the  oppression 
By  the  men  who  hold  possession 
Of  this  world,    which  God  has  given,  leaving    many  in 

distress  ? 

Shall  I  ridicule  the  powers — tyrants  in  this  world  of  ours, 
Raining  wealth  on  some  in  showers,  while  the  poor  they 
sore  oppress  ? ' ' 

Scarcely  had  these  words  been  uttered 
When  the  spirits  answered,  "yes!  " 

"Shall  I  defend  the  babes  of  cities, 
Born  in  slums,  where  no  heart  pities? 
All  the  world  seems  closed  against  them,  and  their  hopes 

are  dark  as  night. 
Christian  men,  'tis  true,  deplore  them,  but  argue,  there 

is  no  room  for  them, 

Shall  I  write,  tyrants,  restore  them  to  the  place  the}'  own 
by  right  ? ' ' 

And  the  spirits  quickly  answered, 
"Of  these  wrongs  we  bid  you  write!  " 

Now  the  morning  winds  were  blowing, 
And  the  barn-yard  cocks  were  crowing, 
When  the  spirits  ceased  their  rapping,  vanished  with  the 

shade  of  night. 
Soon  the  sun  o'er  the  hills  came  peeping,   and  into  my 

room  came  creeping, 

Shone  on  me  as  I  sat  sleeping,  'woke  me  with  its  brilliant 
light; 

Remembering  all  the  spirits  told  fne: 
"Of  these  wrongs  we  bid  you  write!  " 


SONG'S  OF   THE  DESERT. 


WHO  LIES  HERE. 


"Here  lies" — the  cold  tombstone  said, 
In  the  garden  of  the  dead, 
Underneath  the  angel's  head, 

Carved  neatly  on  the  stone — 
"Here  lies  honored  William  Jones; 
Peace  to  his  ashes  and  bones; 
Christ  for  his  sins  now  atones — 

To  heaven  he  has  gone." 

Says  I  to  myself — says  I, 
While  reading  and  passing  by, 
"How  easy  it  is  to  lie; 

But  who  is  lying  here  ? 
If  the  tombstone  man  knew  Jones 
When  carving  these  marble  stones 
To  mark  the  place  where  his  bones 

Lie,  he  lied  himself,  I  fear." 

I  seldom  speak  ill  of  the  dead, 
But  Jones  is  the  man  who  said 
The  laborers  can  be  fed 

On  one  dollar  a  week; 
But  it  cost  him  ten  to  dine, 
And  pay  for  his  costly  wine; 
But  then  he  could  pray,  and  shine 

In  the  church — he  had  cheek. 


142  SONGS   OF    THE   DESERT. 


The  stone  carving  man,  I  know, 
Has  quite  a  mission  below, 
In  telling  where  people  go, 

Who  leave  in  a  doubtful  state. 
Why  don't  his  conscience  rebel? 
And,  sometimes,  just  up  and  tell 
That  some  people  go  to — well, 

It's  called  sheol  of  late. 

When  I  am  dead  and  buried, 
And  to  the  grave-yard  hurried, 
I  don't  want  strangers  flurried 

By  reading  this  to  fag  'em: 
"Faraway  Moses  lies  here;" 
Because  the}?'ll  believe  it,  I  fear, 
And  say  to  themselves,  ''Oh,  dear, 

Satan  will  surely  gag  him!  " 


GRANDPA'S  BABY. 


Good  land  of  goshen,  our  Jennie's  got  a  kid! 

Named  him  after  his  granddad,  so  she  did, 

Like  a  dutiful  daughter;  Jennie  is  that, 

Gentle,  like  her  mother,  and  big  and  fat, 

With  her  great  round  eyes  that  move  so  slow  and  true; 

I  tell  you,  Jane's  equals  are  very  few. 

But,  good  lands,  just  to  think  how  fast  time  flies; 


SOXGS  OF   THE  DESERT.  143 


Baby,  childhood,  whiskers — then  the  man  dies. 
It  seems  but  yesterday  since  I  went  to  school, 
To  parse  grammar  accordin'  to  the  rule, 
And  now  I'm  a  granddaddy — good  lands  of  joy! 
To  think  our  Jane  has  a  baby  boy! 
Why,  it  seems  but  a  week  past  over  my  head 
Since  my  sweetheart,  Betsey,  and  I  were  wed, 
And  now  she's  a  grandma!    and  I'm  a  granddad ! 
And  I'm  as  lean  as  the  last  run  of  shad, 
And  my  knees  wobble  when  I  go  out  to  walk, 
And  these  old  snags  of  teeth  bother  my  talk; 
And  already  the  neighbors  call  me  old  man, 
Tho'  I  try  to  be  as  brisk  as  I  can. 
And,  good  lands  of  goshen,  it  seems  that  I  have 
One  foot  in  childhood,  and  one  in  the  grave; 
And  the  rest  of  life  has  slip'd  through  my  legs, 
Like  swift  water  running  between  two  pegs. 
And  life  seems  to  be  gettin'  so  awful  cold 
Since  Betsey  and  I  are  growing  so  old; 
But  I'll  sing  to  our  grand-child,  nevertheless, 
And  forget  all  life's  worry  and  distress: 
Hip-per-ty  Hop-per-ty,  up  and  down  we  go! 
Toots-el-ly  woots-el-ly  here  we  stop — whoa! 
Old  ginger  snap  on  horseback,  here  we  trot  so! 
Baby's  glad,  grandpa's  sad — no  one  will  know. 


.SY>AY;V  or  THE  DESERT. 


WE  ARK  BLIND. 


No  one  knows  the  secret  sighing, 
Sobbing,  in  a  neighbor's  heart; 

No  one  knows  the  fond  hopes  dying, 
No  one  knows  the  crnel  smart. 

No  one  knows  the  hungry  yearning 
Of  a  neighbor's  cheerless  soul; 

No  one  knows  how  grief  is  burning 
In  the  heart  where  hope  grows  cold. 

None  but  God  knows  each  desire; 

He  knows  all  things  in  our  mind: 
Sees  hope  fanned  by  passion's  fire, 

Knows  that  love  and  hope  are  blind. 

When  from  loved  ones  we  do  sever, 
And  to  far-off  countries  go, 

If  we  knew  we'd  see  them  never — 
Oh,  'tis  better  not  to  know! 

If  we  knew  the  day  and  minute 
Death  would  strike  the  fatal  blow, 

Life  would  have  less  pleasure  in  it, 
And  'tis  better  not  to  know. 

Thus,  in  darkness,  hope  is  ever 
Building  castles  in  our  mind, 

Cheering  soul  with  visions  clever, 
For,  like  love,  our  hope  is  blind. 


SO.VGS  OF    THE  DESSERT. 


In  our  youth  what  bright  creations 
Hope  will  picture  in  our  mind, 

Lift  us  to  some  lofty  station — 
But  alas!  our  hope  is  blind. 

Hope  grows  dim  as  we  grow  older, 
Castles  crumble  in  our  mind; 

Youthful  loves  grow  colder,  colder! 
God  have  mercy — we  are  blind! 


JILTED. 


All  I  ever  loved  I  lost, 

All  I  lost  who  once  loved  me; 

Life  is  hardly  worth  the  cost; 
Win-  not  set  this  poor  soul  free  ? 

Friends  I  had,  but  thus  I  proved  them: 

They  were  friendly  until  I 
Proved  by  actions  that  I  loved  them, 

When  all  friendships  seemed  to  die. 

The  choicest  flowers  of  creation 

Seem  to  flourish  until  I 
Give  to  them  my  admiration, 

Then  they  wither  up  and  die. 

So  with  flowers,  so  with  friends — 
Other  hearts  with  joy  they  fill; 

Where  I  love  all  friendship  ends, 
My  affections  seem  to  kill. 


146  SO1VGS  OF   THE   DESERT. 


LOVE'S  YOUNG  DREAM. 


There's   the  oddest   sort   of  feelin'  a   bedoozlin'    at    one's 

heart, 
When   the  pray'r  meetin'   is  over,  an'   the  girls  begin   to 

start 
Towards  the  church  door,  a  fussin'  an'  a  fixin'   on  their 

hats ; 
An'  your  heart  begins  to  flutter  in  sich  orful  pittipats. 

'Cause  there's  the  girl  you're  lovin'  jist  as  hard  as  you 

kin  love, 
Edgin'   up  towards  your  rival,  an'   you   haven't  gall  to 

move, 
An'  crowd  yourself  in  between  'em  an'  jist  offer  her  your 

arm, 
'Cause  you're  not  so   deuced  certain    of  the  love  of  the 

school  inarm. 

An'  so,   there  you  stand  a  waitin'  jist  outside  the  church 

front  door, 
With  your  heart  a  pitti-pattin'  'till  your  ribs  are  feelin' 

sore, 
An'  when  the  school  marm  comes  at  last,  an'  you're  most 

half  dead  with  fright, 
Your  rival  scoops  her  up  an'  goes  off  triumphant  in  the 

night. 


SO.VGS  OF   THE  DESERT.  147 


Oh,  that  orful  jealous  feelin'  that  keeps  gnawin'  at  your 

soul ! 
As  you  walk  along  behint  'em  with  your  blood  a  runnin' 

cold ; 
How  you  hate  that  stuck-up  rival,  an'  wish  you  was  big 

an'  stout 
Anuff  to  throw  him  down  an'  pound  him,  and  gouge  his 

both  eyes  out. 

Oh,  I  know  just  what  I'msayin',  'cause  I've  been  there 

once  myself, 
An'   I  know  that  orful  feelin'  when  you  git  laid  on  the 

shelf; 
When  your  heart  feels  so  bedoozled  that  you  hardly  sleep 

or  eat, 
An'  you  don't  know  if  your  brains  are  in  your  gizzard  or 

your  feet. 

An'  you  go  around  a  mopin'  with  your  eyes  a  lookin'  down, 
An'  the  o'ny  thought  that's  in   }-our  head   is   Mary  Ida 

Brown ; 
An'  in  the  spring-time,  when  the  birds  all  come  back  again 

to  nest, 
Your  mother  buys  a  liver  pad  for  to  strengthen  up  your 

chest. 


SO.VGS  OF    THE   DESERT. 


RETROSPECT. 


Somehow  I  never  had  a  wish  to  be  a  boy  again, 
To  suffer  with  stone  bruises  and  little  stomach  pain; 
But  if  I  could  go  back  again  and  live  my  childhood  o'er, 
I'd  want  to  be  a  little  cuss  just  like  I  was  before; 
To  be  the  same  old  boy  I  was  some  thirty  years  ago, 
The  little  harum  scarum  the  neighbors  used  to  know; 
To  hunt  for  squirrels  on  Sunday,  and  fish  for  horned  chubs, 
To  climb  the  trees  for  chestnut  burs,  like  little  hungry  cubs; 
But  of  all  the  boyish  joys  and  delightful  happy  moods, 
There's  none  like  stealing  roasting  ears  and  cook  them  in 
the  woods. 

I  never  shall  forget  the  gang  who  joined  me  in  the  feast, 
Who  went  along  to  steal  the  corn,  and  never  cared  the  least 
About  the  sin  committed  in  the  middle  of  the  night, 
For  we  thought  that  boys  could  never  do  anything  that's 

right 

And  good  and  pious,  like  Sunday  school  girls  would  do, 
So  we  went  in  for  a  good  time,  roast  corn  and  chicken  stew; 
And  some  would  steal  the  pots  and  salt  from  off  the  kitchen 

shelf, 

And  others  to  the  cornfield  hie,  and  each  one  help  himself 
To  neighbor  Crawford's  early  corn,  that  dear,  delicious  food, 
Then  roast  the  ears  like  cannibals,  on  top  of  burning  wood. 

Then  after  the  feast  was  over,  and  cobs  were  gnawed  off 

clean, 
Would  begin  the  story  telling  while  lolling  on  the  green; 


OF    THE  DESERT. 


149 


And  while  one  boy  was  spinning  a  legend  or  home-made 

He, 

We'd  lay  on  our  backs  so  dreamy  and  look  towards  the  sky. 
When  Eli  Johnson's  turn  came  he'd  tell  such  an  awful  tale, 
We'd  all  snug  up  together  and  lie  in  a  bunch  and  quail; 
He'd  tell  of  the  ghosts  his  father  saw  'way  beyond  the  sea, 
And  headless  spooks  his  mother  saw  over  in  Germany; 
And  there  we'd  lay  and  tremble  with  a  tingling  in  our 

blood, 
When  we  used  to  steal  the  roasting  ears  and  cook  them  in 

the  wood. 

Where,  oh,  where,  are  these  boys  to-day?   Scattered  from 

sea  to  sea; 
And  some  are  mouldering  in  the  grave,  from  every  pain  set 

free. 

Eli  is  down  in  Florida  with  flowers  every  day; 
Jeff.  Farley  at  Pomona  in  California; 
Will  Langdon,  and  little  Sammy,  and  grumbling  old  Sie 

Fink, 
Frank  Haslett,  Buck  Bryan  and  Skip— all  scattered,  just 

to  think ! 
And  I  am  scattered  some,  too,  from  the  scenes  of  childhood's 

day, 

And  the  faces  of  that  dear  old  crowd  seem  so  far  away; 
But,  with  closed  eyes,  I  see  the  spot  where  Eli  Johnson 

stood, 
The  nights  we  stole  the  roasting  ears  and  cooked  them  in 

the  wood. 


150  SOA'GS  OF   THE  DESERT. 


GOING  TO  MILL. 


Man  is  like  an  old  tow  sack, 

Full  of  little  seeds; 
Each  variety  represents 

His  good  or  wicked  deeds. 

Time  is  like  a  reaper, 

Mowing  down  life's  leaves; 
Memory  is  the  gleaner, 

Gathering  up  the  sheaves. 

All  the  sheaves  are  garnered 

Within  the  busy  brain ; 
When  old  age  comes  to  thresh  them, 

Memory  brings  them  forth  again. 

Threshed  and  winnowed  out  by  pain, 

In  nature's  mill  the}'  fall; 
Death  will  pulverize  each  grain, 

Then  claim  the  sack  and  all. 

Then  let  us  all  be  neighborly, 

Climbing  life's  rough  hill; 
The  rich  will  ride,  the  poor  must  walk, 

But  all  are  going  to  mill. 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


APR  20 1990 


UH.  MAY0 
APR  ^ 


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